


Moon Phase

by Abitofwhimsy



Category: Doctor Who, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M, Slow Burn, Werewolf Mates, Werewolves, Werewolves in Heat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 149,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abitofwhimsy/pseuds/Abitofwhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isolated, aging werewolf Ian Doyle (Peter Capaldi) has been hiding his true nature from the people of London for nearly his entire life. As a result, he finds it difficult to get close to anybody. However, when he meets the much-younger and much-troubled Geraldine Oakley (Scarlett Johansson), an American werewolf who just so happens to be struggling with her own identity issues, he instantly yearns for the companionship of his own kind.</p><p>Under Doyle's insistence, the two strike up a friendship. Eventually, Doyle starts to fall for the precocious Oakley, and although she is already involved with a non-wolf, he manages to convince her to help him embrace his wolf-side by giving him regular hunting lessons.  </p><p>(Basically, a fic written as if it were a dark romance indie film, starring two of my all-time favorite actors)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experimental romance story about people who can become wolves, inspired by a handful of things including Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London", and written in a style that hopefully suggests the 'feel' of a feature film. Try to imagine the characters played by their specified actors. Try to imagine this is all beautifully shot in that surreal, Indie-film/romantic-black-comedy kind of way. Try to imagine I know what I'm doing. And please, comment and criticize freely. Otherwise, I won't know how to improve myself.
> 
>  
> 
> CAST OF CHARACTERS (last updated March 2016):
> 
> • Ian Doyle = Peter Capaldi (late fifties, picture The Doctor crossbred with Malcolm Tucker)
> 
> • Geraldine Oakley = Scarlett Johansson (late twenties / early thirties, picture Clarice Starling crossbred with the alien from Under the Skin)
> 
> • Charles Weller = Henry Cavill
> 
> • Margie Heart = Emilie de Ravin
> 
> • Ed Gibson = Simon Pegg

**1.**

**JULY - Waxing Gibbous**

“The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.”  
― [Jack London](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1240.Jack_London), [_White Fang_](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2949952)

 

 

_[Sunday, July 26th. Afternoon.]_

 

_[The interior of the Colling Brothers Funeral Home is a wash of pale pastels and soft lamplight. On sunny days, the white curtains catch the bright warmth of the sun, and a friendly, comforting atmosphere is achieved. Today, the decor looks impossibly bleak – bathed, depressingly, in the shadowy grays of the drab and drizzly afternoon._

_Standing stoop-shouldered in the lobby under the dim glare of the front window, impeccably dressed in dark coal-gray (a color that makes his blue eyes pop electric), is Ian Doyle._

_Doyle is 57 years old, and Scottish. He is also surprisingly f_ _it, for a middle-aged man, and there is a peculiar cleverness in him too, aside from his intelligence. A very subtle, animalistic quality that catches the eyes. It is first noticed in his color sense and the textures of his clothing. Even within the standards of wake-appropriate dress, he draws a certain amount of wandering attention from passersby.]_

 

Ian Doyle tipped his head back and sniffed. The strange scent filled the funeral home. Like a thick smog, it saturated every dreary room, and somehow made the place more tolerable. Doyle continued to breath it in, baffled by the way it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. 

With his more-than-capable nose, Doyle could smell the fragrance over the colognes and perfumes of a dozen crying mourners. He could smell it over the coat of varnish on the wooden hat-rack, over the dust in the air, over the enormous wreath of flowers by the front hall. It must have been the embalming fluid. 

Doyle took a few more sampling sniffs and when he decided he liked it (how utterly depraved), sucked in a great gusting breath until his head swam with the smell. It was tangy-sweet and tantalizing. A welcome contrast to the depressing atmosphere, like a dollop of fine cream on a crusty burnt cake. It wasn't often that he smelled something he liked. Too many city scents clogged out the good. Cab exhaust and grimy gutters. _Thank God for small miracles._ Doyle fought the urge to smile.

In the lobby there sat an ancient grandfather clock, it's brass pendulum swinging back and forth with a metallic pang. 

Brought out of his stupor by the sound, Doyle checked himself, crossed to the back of the house, and made his way through the throng of gathering relatives, aiming for the coffin. He saw their heads turn, felt the collection of their curious stares pressing stiffly into him, like an irritating weight. His ears, sensitively pricked, caught their secretive whispers. They were trying to determine whether he was friend or family-member. Ignoring the noise, Doyle silently approached the coffin to pay his respects. 

The casket was closed, and next to it was a large peg board covered in photographs. Pictures of Edgar Boyd. They showed the plump, round-faced older man at various stages in his life. Teaching in a classroom. Walking three small children up the high street. In an art studio, painting rolling hills onto a blank canvas. This last aspect was the one Doyle recognized best. The Edgar Boyd he was most familiar with. 

Doyle attempted to recall the first time he had met Edgar Boyd. Tried to picture him in the gallery, proudly boasting about his most recent landscape. Boyd had been confident it would sell within the week, and was one of the few artists whose work Doyle could stand. Doyle struggled to remember who wound up buying Boyd's final painting. Some silly little cafe owner who thought it looked “nice”. 

The scent was becoming distracting. Doyle bent over the deceased and concluded that the embalming fluid was not the source. He let his concentration wander as he mulled it over. 

_Not the flowers, not the wood. What then?_

Doyle seemed unable to deliver the respect the man in the coffin deserved. Feeling suddenly guilty, he decided to step away. 

Outside, a light drizzle misted over the funeral home, and the midday sky was covered by a blanket of murky clouds. Doyle thought it felt unseasonably cool for July. He lingered in the courtyard, a thin silhouette against the burgundy bricks. Tested the air and found it crisp. Bitter. As his head cleared he thought about Edgar Boyd. Not a friend necessarily, but a close acquaintance. Doyle did not have friends. He found people difficult to tolerate, to relate to. He wondered what he was really doing at Edgar Boyd's wake. If he was actually sad to know Boyd was gone, or if he came because it was the human thing to do. 

In the garden adjacent to the funeral home, several green leaves tumbled off the branches of a large oak. Eventually Doyle shut his eyes, weary and dreading the train ride back to Soho. Ugly school children and crying babies. All those noisy cubs. He would probably have to suffer them for the majority of the trip home.

Lost in thought, he felt a figure brush past, and flinched, smelling a blast of something heavenly as the door slammed shut again. He opened his eyes in slow motion and from across the gray garden, he saw a petite woman settle by the oak tree – sharp in her black dress and swimming in her own fragrance. 

Doyle saw past the veil of her disguise immediately. 

_Female. She's a female. I've found a FEMALE._

It nearly brought his tail out right then and there, but he suppressed the reaction with swift self-control. Decades had passed since Doyle had encountered another wolf. Finding one was incredibly rare (the last time he'd seen another wolf, he'd been in Paris), but a female – he had a better chance of being struck by lightning than finding a female, especially in London. 

Edgar Boyd was instantly forgotten as Doyle began diverting his attention to the woman's face. He spent a full minute and a half analyzing it. 

Doyle had an eye for art. Art was his business and a relatively large part of his life. He scrutinized all faces the way he scrutinized portraits, and his judgement was often harsh. With this woman it was no different, but her scent curbed Doyle's opinion somewhat. 

Physically, she looked about thirty, if not slightly older, and aesthetically speaking, she was plain – the kind of woman that wouldn't normally draw his attention. But he had to admit, she had a simple comeliness that was, in a way, attractive. Beyond that, she looked tired. There were bags under her dark eyes, and her sagging posture suggested that she hadn't had a full night's sleep in several days. Her most stunning attribute – if he had to name one – was a set of full, pouting lips. Presently, a lit cigarette hung between them. She pulled it away with wiry fingers and puffed a ring of smoke for the cold breeze to take.  

Doyle inhaled, fighting back his excitement and searching through the cigarette smoke to savor her natural scent. She smelled marvelous. Wholesome and earthy, like fresh pine needles. That tempting smell of the forest. She had hardly done a thing to cover it up, almost like she wasn't ashamed of her nature. 

Doyle knew he stank of toothpaste and styling gel. His hair was sleek with it, and he was sure she could smell it on him. How could she not? Maybe the smoke masked it.

He continued to stare at the woman for a further minute, trying to decide what to do. In the end, he went to her with a dry mouth and sweaty palms. Desperate for interaction. Lonely for his own kind.

He drew toward her slowly, loosening the knot of his tie as he walked. Instances such as these required a certain amount of tact. There was a strict etiquette he had to follow in order to avoid provoking her. It was more instinct than habit, the way one wild animal might approach another wild animal. Ears back flat, tail drooped, non-threatening. A considerable gap of distance would be left between them at first.

Doyle was halfway across the garden when she finally looked up. Angular chin tipped back, eyes wide and alert. It was as though she had only just noticed him. Doyle came closer and watched her tense. His mind buzzed with introductions, none of them decent. As he reached her he settled for "You shouldn't do that."

A pause while she regarded him.

Then, through a puff of smoke – "Do what?"

_Accent an accent which one place it quickly American I think._

"That," Doyle said, flustered, and pointed to the cigarette.

She stared at him.

Doyle cleared his throat and started over. Calmer this time. "That. It isn't good for you." 

Slowly, the woman's lips curled into a coy smile. "Aw, well, what else am I supposed to do? There's no food in there, and the conversation's too depressing. This was my last option."

"Still. It can make you sick."

She laughed, and he nearly fell over.

"You know, my ancestors used to smoke the peace-pipe with the tribes. True story. Habit's in the blood, sir." She flicked the cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of her boot, and stuck her hand out to shake. "Geraldine Oakley. Folks call me Gerry. Pleased to meet you."

Hesitantly, Doyle leaned forward and took her hand in his. 

"Ian Doyle," he said, sliding his thumb along the small of her palm. Smooth, soft skin. He thought he felt the pulse flutter underneath, but her expression remained placid. She retracted her hand and looked up at him expectantly. He felt absurd when he could think of nothing else to say.

"Sure is a small world, eh, scruff," Oakley commented. "I mean, when you showed up to this thing, were you expecting to see another –"

Doyle managed a quick "No."

"Me neither."

"There aren't very many of us left. In London, that is."

She shrugged, looking glum. "Yeah. I kind of noticed that. Now the states, over in the states you've got yourself a different story. Louisiana's practically crawling with wolves. New Orleans. Loup-garou. That's what the locals call us. Swamp wolves," she told him, perking back up.

"New Orleans," Doyle repeated. "Do you come from New Orleans?" 

She gave an indignant snort. "No, sir. Wyoming, sir. Hulett. Born and raised. How about yourself?"

"Glasgow. Originally. I reside in London now."

"That right?" She seemed tickled by his choice of words. "Me too. And just where in London do you _reside_ , Mr. Doyle?"

Delicately tentative, he dared to inch closer, ever wary for signs of disgruntlement. To his relief, Oakley seemed surprisingly comfortable in his presence. So far so good.

"I own an art gallery in Soho. I live just above it," Doyle explained.

"Oh yeah? You an artist?" 

"I draw, sometimes. Do the occasional watercolor," he told her. "Mostly, I deal in the work of other artists. Buy and sell. That sort of thing."

She gave a curt nod toward the funeral home. "Edgar in there, he used to paint."

"I know. I've sold several of his works. He is –"

"Was," Oakley corrected.

"Was a very talented man." Doyle finished.

Oakley nodded. "I met him a couple times. Nice guy. Friendly. The fellow I came here with, he knows – knew Edgar better."

Doyle deflated slightly. So she was there with someone. Of course she was.

"Your fellow . . ." He began, trying to hide is disappointment. 

"Charles Weller. I call him Charlie," Oakley informed him.

"Charles," Doyle repeated. He said the man’s name with disgust, as though it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Is Charles our kind or –"

"Afraid he's one of the boring animals," said Oakley. "Actually, he's all right. He's a professor. Teaches psychology over at the University. That's where he first met Edgar, I think. Edgar came in for a semester, taught as an adjunct. Had a class all about Dali, if I remember right."

"Yes, I remember. We used to talk about it sometimes, when he came into the gallery." A beat. Doyle plunged. "Does he know? About you?" 

"Who? Charlie? No. Haven't told him yet. So how long you been in London, scruff?"

"Oh, ages," said Doyle, recognizing the quick topic change. "My mother and I moved to Crouch End when I was just a cub. She was quite determined that I grow up among people. What about you?"

"Been here about six years now. Got a job over at Gatwick. You know the dogs that look for drugs and stuff in people's luggage? I'm the one that trains them. Airport canine handler. That's the official title."

Doyle hummed his intrigue. "Is that what brought you to London?"

"No, the airplane brought me to London, Mr. Doyle." When he failed to get the joke, she added "Well, really, Charlie brought me over. Paid for my ticket. Sort of an elopement without the marriage. Anyway, I got the job about a year later. Had to have the training first, though. Turns out I'm a natural."

"Do you like it?" Doyle questioned, genuinely interested.

"Sure. Working with the dogs is great. Gets a little exhausting, though. Sometimes," Oakley confessed. "You know what I mean?"

"You work around that many people, you have to keep up appearances," Doyle surmised with a grimace.

"Exactly." She huffed a sigh. "Feels like forever since I let my pelt out."

"Yes, it's certainly nice to see another wolf for once."

"Yeah. Reminds me of home," said Oakley.

Here the conversation dropped, giving Doyle an appropriate amount of time to think. Doyle was a fan of introspection. He examined his own feelings and behavior with regularity. Doyle did not know Geraldine Oakley, but he wanted to. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Some combination of grief and the appeal of having a real friend. Someone he could actually connect with. Someone who might help him discover more about himself, about his _true_ self. At the same time, though, Doyle was smart enough to recognize that Oakley's scent was affecting his judgement. Because of it, he perceived her as slightly more appealing than he otherwise would have. Even so, he sensed some potential in Oakley, and was willing to risk a letdown to find out if his instincts were right.

"Would you be interested in, ah . . ." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck, unsure of how to phrase it. "We could sneak away from here. Grab something to eat?" He offered. 

Once the words left his lips, it occurred to him that the scenario worked both ways. Yes, he wanted to get to know Oakley. But did Oakley want to know _him_? Doyle hoped she did. He was nothing special, but if she was as desperate for companionship as he was, then she had little choice apart from him. 

Doyle held his breath while she considered. 

After a moment she frowned. "We're leaving."

At first Doyle thought she meant they would leave together. Then he caught a whiff of the new scent. Chalk and pen-ink. He turned and saw Oakley's beau waiting in the doorway of the funeral home, hair combed neatly to one side, dark eyes squinting under thick glasses. Doyle's initial impression was that Charles Weller dressed like he belonged in a Norman Rockwell. And he was young. Of course he was young. They were both so much younger than Doyle. He felt a twinge of territorial jealousy shoot through him and stopped a low growl before it could rise fully out of his throat.

Oakley was already up, about to make her way over to the other man. 

Panicking, Doyle said "We could exchange numbers, if you wanted to keep in touch." 

Oakley stopped and stared at him. 

"Erm, that is – good company is difficult to find, and it might be nice to have some one to talk to. About . . . _things,_ " Doyle suggested carefully. He wondered if she thought he sounded desperate.

"Tell you what," said Oakley. "Let's not do the whole telephone thing. Too much pressure. Will they call? Why haven't they called? Nobody needs that. You asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. There's this Chinese place on Gerrard Street. Right by you. Lee Ho Fooks. We could meet up this Wednesday for dinner."

Doyle, with his heart doing flips in his chest, asked "What time?"

"Dunno. Eight all right with you?"

Scowling – "Would your fellow want you to be out that late?"

"Charlie has a night class Wednesdays. He stays late, grades papers. I'll get home before he does." 

Beaming – "Perfect. Eight o'clock it is."

"You got it, scruff."

She gave a playful wink and padded over to the man in the glasses. Doyle watched him receive her with a kiss, and shoo her back into the funeral home.

Doyle left shortly after that. The train ride back to Soho was a muted blur in his peripherals as he pictured Geraldine Oakley's tired face, her lips, the little flecks of primal yellow in her dark round eyes. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**2.**

**JULY - Waxing Gibbous**

“It's hard to have anything isn't it? Rare to get it, hard to keep it. This is a damn slippery planet.”   
― [Thomas Harris](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/12455.Thomas_Harris),  _[Red Dragon](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/925503)_

 

 

 

_[Wednesday, July 29th. Evening.]_

 

_[The interior of Lee Ho Fooks in London owns a stark and smoky atmosphere, colored in an abstract scheme of dull reds and greens. The simplicity of the metallic lighting and plain brick walls seem almost to contradict the elegance of the fine, polished wood floors and tables. At the back of the space, decorating the remainder of the old chimney, there is a spectacular porcelain relief of a pair of colorful birds alighting on the angry ocean.]_

 

Geraldine Oakley knew how to read people. She could usually tell a person's mood by their expression. Six years of watching tearful goodbyes and happy reunions at Gatwick airport had given her a sixth sense for it, but reading Ian Doyle was slightly more complicated. At first, her initial impression of Doyle was divided.

Physically-speaking, Doyle was nothing impressive. He was hawk-nosed, yes, and impossibly tall, but compared to some of the people Oakley saw on a day-to-day basis, he was decidedly unremarkable. Just a collection of sharp angles and curly hair. His only interesting feature was perhaps the way he held his face. Or rather, the way his face held its self. 

At the funeral home Oakley had noticed that Doyle's face had the unfortunate habit of twisting into a sinister scowl, even if he was speaking in a blatantly _relaxed_ tone of voice. Doyle had made up for this cross appearance with inviting conversation, and a striking outfit. When Oakley saw him through the rain-streaked windowpane of Lee Ho Fooks three days later she wondered if he had his own private tailor. He was occupying a small table-for-two near the back of the restaurant, dressed in a navy blue suit-jacket with red lining, and nursing a cup of tea. Sitting perfectly strait, he looked almost statuesque all by himself at the table. 

Curious, Oakley pressed her face against the glass, hoping to get a closer look. He was seated facing away from the window, with his back to her. She couldn't see his face – but from his posture she deduced he was tense. She spent a further minute studying Doyle through the glass, trying to determine whether or not the cause of his tension was her own lateness. Oakley had made it a point to delay herself specifically so she could gauge Ian Doyle's reaction. If he got angry with her, or treated her in any way disrespectfully because of her arrival time, she would write him off there and then, and leave. On the other hand, if he was pleasant towards her indiscretion, and forgiving of it, she would let him to consume a piece of her valuable time.

For a short while Oakley lingered outside the restaurant, watching Doyle with calm intrigue. Eventually she concluded that, while he _did_ look mildly impatient, his impatience was of the shy, nervous variety. She watched him check the time at least twice more before she finally entered the restaurant. 

Inside it was warm and moderately empty – save for the one or two stragglers by the front counter waiting to pick up their take-away. Oakley, coming up behind Doyle, sent nimble fingers out to lightly tap his shoulder. Startled, Doyle whipped around, sky-blue eyes first wide with shock, and then relief. His gaze followed her as she moved around the table. Her hair, long and bedraggled by the rain, was quickly tied back using a spare band she kept in her jacket pocket. She set her umbrella on the floor by her chair, but kept her jacket on. Purposefully, she was not wearing any makeup, and she made sure her tone was not too friendly when she said "Hi again, scruff."

Doyle's scowl melted into a warm smile that made his eyes shine.

"Hello," he said, gentle and inviting. He did not ask her why she was late, and she was glad she didn't have to make up an excuse. 

"Nice clothes," said Oakley. "For an art dealer."

Doyle chuckled, and after the initial awkwardness passed, he asked her how her day had been. Oakley told him basic things about her job and the number of bags she searched that morning, about getting stuck in the queue at the grocery store later on. Nothing overtly detailed, nothing too personal. Mostly, she asked _him_ questions. Questions about himself. She was very eager to find out more about him, to understand who he really was. His answers were unhurried, plausible and tactfully delivered. 

Ian Doyle had no siblings, and he had no father – at least that he could recall. His mother had brought him down from Glasgow when he was only ten, with the vain hope in mind that, if they focused hard enough on being people, on living the human life, their bodies might naturally rid themselves of their canine afflictions.

"Mother always thought there was a choice involved," Doyle explained. "She used to tell me that it had to do with the way you behaved. If you acted like an animal, you would become the animal. But, if you acted like a man, you would stay a man. I think she thought that, if you stayed a man for long enough, you would forget how to be a wolf and be done with it. I've no idea if that's true, of course." 

Oakley nodded. "Where's your mom now?"

"She passed away in her sleep. It was a long time ago. Almost twelve years now."  

"Sorry," said Oakley, but he waved away her apology with an indifferent grunt.

She sat back in her chair, reflecting. She thought Doyle held himself in a way that suggested he knew better than some people, herself included, and at first glance she had been mildly worried that he would turn out to be a snob. But his directness, his willingness to speak so plainly of painful things with her, was surprisingly touching. 

The evening stretched on.

Oakley prodded Doyle about his tastes.

"You look like the type who's got a thing for the high-end," Oakley told him.

"Do I?" He sounded slightly amused. 

"Well you _are_ an art dealer. And you've got a relatively good sense of style."

"Thank you. But my fondness for the culturally relevant comes from upbringing, I'm afraid. Not occupation."

"You mean your mom was the fancy one?" 

"Not exactly. Mother worked at an ice cream parlor. But she wanted better for me, I think. When I was a child she took me to libraries, the symphony – when she could afford it. And museums. I think I've been to the Royal Gallery, oh, at least a hundred times, if not more." 

"But that's not really you?"

Doyle raked a hand through his graying curls and said "It's the me I show people, I suppose. But I don't think I'm really like that. Snooty. I like art, but art isn't just the fancy stuff. It's everything. Anything."

Oakley was delighted to learn that her early assumptions of Doyle were misguided when he divulged to her his love of 80's punk rock and cheesy science fiction television – traits she felt humanized him slightly, and made him easier to relate to.

"I went through a phase," he revealed, squirming under her scrutiny. "I dyed my hair red. Bright red. I wanted to be an actor. I wanted to go to drama school. My mother thought I should have a more sensible career, but for a year I had red hair and a leather jacket. I think I looked like a massive carrot. It was my rebellion, I guess."

"Did you do anything? Like, plays or whatever?"

"I went to auditions. I remember, I went to one. An art-house play. Difficult to describe. It was a re-envisioning of Little Red Riding Hood."

Oakley grinned at him. "Oh my god. Please tell me they cast you as the Big Bad Wolf."

"No, they didn't pick me for anything. Said my eyebrows were too active." Doyle sighed. "It was meant to be a science-fiction production, you see. Very Two-Thousand-One meets the Brothers Grimm. Laughable, really."

"Hey, I would pay to see it. I mean, if they cast you."

Doyle turned away, bashful. "Ah, it never really took off, the whole acting thing. I wound up falling back on my skills as an artist. Went to school for art in the end. Graduated, got a job designing, lost the job, did a few bad paintings, found I had a knack for selling them. Twenty years later and here I am. Selling bad paintings for a living." 

Together, they talked about art, about the qualities each thought made for good art. Doyle believed that art had to represent beauty in some way (he was a big fan of the classical portraits, and an even bigger fan of landscapes), while Oakley believed that just about anything could be considered art, so long as the person viewing it saw it as art. 

Childhood was also brought up. Memories of Glasgow and early life in Soho in Doyle case, the hardships of rural Wyoming in Oakley's. Worlds apart had apparently formed two people that clicked remarkably well. The things they had in common included a love of the outdoors (although opportunities to indulge in this shared love were sadly few and far between), a profound respect for the acting talents of Anthony Hopkins, and a deep-seeded disdain for the Lon Chaney "Wolf Man" movies.

Once their food came, the conversation drifted away from the sharing of backstories, and descended into casual small-talk. 

Doyle's voice was very nice to listen to. It had just the right pitch to it – deep but not too deep, and rich, with a slight, nasally edge. And his accent was an astounding cascade of fluid syllables. A jagged melody that pulled a listener in. Oakley spent her days surrounded by an orchestra of strange voices and bazaar speech patterns. If she had to pick a favorite, she might have said Scottish. She loved how different it sounded to the Southern twang she'd grown up hearing. As they ate, she thought she could sit and listen to Doyle speak for hours, rolling from one topic onto another with brilliantly witty little segues.

Doyle told her about the gallery he owned, about the paintings he sold and the artists he met. He confessed that he did not regularly seek out interaction. It was part of his job, and he did it without protest, but outside the realm of business, he viewed social interaction as an unnecessary chore. He preferred to spend time in the den above his gallery, in the space he considered safe, and watch people from the window.

"Sounds like you're a house-cat, huh," Oakley chuckled.  

Doyle hung his head to hide another nervous smile. She thought it was adorable.

"It's just that I don't do this type of thing. It's been years since I've done this type of thing," he told her, shuffling in his seat.

He was visibly skittish, but in that same shy, reserved sort of way she had seen earlier, outside the restaurant. It made Oakley want to press him for as much information as he was willing to give.

"I never go out, really," said Doyle.

"Me neither. Except for errands and stuff," Oakley confessed. "Don't get me wrong. I see folks. Charlie and I go out sometimes, more with his friends than with mine. But his friends are _friends_. My friends are, I don't know, mostly work-people I guess. I don't mind talking to them. Just, after a while, you get sick of colleagues and stuff. You know?"

"It's hard to find just one person to talk to. To connect with."

"That's true."

Doyle put his hand on the table, showcasing strong knuckles with a fine layer of silvery hair. Long fingers reached for a napkin, and a depraved thought went skipping inconveniently through Oakley's mind.

"I appreciate you agreeing to this. Thank you for coming," Doyle said gently, dabbing his mouth with the napkin.

Still focused on his fingers, Oakley willed her cheeks not to flame. "Sure, no problem. Been nice. Might do it again some time."

The last of their trepidation finally began to dissipate, and Oakley came to learn that Doyle had a formidable, almost imperial disposition. He was a Scotsman if ever there was one. Oakley did not know how else to define it, but when she thought of Scottish men she thought of bright eyes and electric humor and this split-second before speaking in conversation. This instant of rapid study and contemplation before responding to a thought – a personality attribute that was totally lacking in Americans. To Oakley, Scottish meant clever, prepared. But then, Scottish also meant turbulent. More than once, Doyle became lost in his own tangents, a sight that Oakley found both entertaining, and a little intense. In the end, though, she came to understand that beneath the scowl and the shyness and the art-dealer persona, he was a genuinely well-meaning man, and relatively pleasant to be around. 

When dinner was finished, Doyle offered to walk her home.

"At least let me get you a cab," he insisted as they stepped outside.

The rain had stopped, and the air was muggy and cool. Somewhere in the distance the sound of a busker's guitar echoed off the cobblestone. Paul Simon's _About The Moon_ , played with more enthusiasm than talent. Oakley fished a cigarette from her pocket and lit it, the irony lost on her.

"I'm in Mayfair. I can manage it by myself," she replied between puffs.

They set off together down the lane, even though she was fairly positive he lived in the other direction.

"Never did talk all that much about things, though, did we," said Oakley, trying to mask her regret with a joking tone.

"The night is young. We could find a pub?" Doyle said with a come-hither rise of his eyebrows. 

Oakley couldn't help but giggle. "Oh yeah. Let's go get a pina colada at Trader Vic's, shall we?"

"Would you like to?"

There was both enthusiasm and hope in his voice. She hated having to disappoint him.

"Nah. Can't. Love to, but it's past my bedtime."

They didn't separate right away, listening to the wind and the music for a while, walking side by side. Oakley acknowledged that she felt entirely at ease with Doyle, and made up her mind there and then that he was an okay guy in her book. Above her, the moon peaked out from behind a passing cloud. A bright, waxing gibbous that lit the street in ghostly blue. 

Together they came to a crosswalk and Doyle said "We could talk about things more in depth the next time around, perhaps? That is – did you mean what you said back there? About wanting to do it again? Get together, I mean. We could."

Oakley flipped her cigarette into the gutter. Nonchalant, she said "Fine by me. Wanna make it a weekly thing?"

Doyle seemed surprised by her response, as if he hadn't expected her to agree. "Well, yes, but, would that be all right for you? Would your fellow mind?"

"I don't need my _fellow's_ permission, if that's what you mean," Oakley laughed.

"Yes, but, does he . . . Is he okay? With this? You having dinner with a strange man?"

"You're not that strange. And yeah, he's okay with it. He was okay with it when I told him where I'd be tonight, who I was meeting up with."

"Who did you tell him you were meeting up with?"

"Friend of Edgar's. Anyway, we could get together Wednesdays. Wednesdays are pretty bland for me. Be good to have something to look forward to," Oakley told him.

Thrilled, Doyle grinned at her. "I'd love that." 

"Next Wednesday it is, then."

"Same place, same time."

"Sounds good to me. See you later, scruff. Have a groovy week."

With that Oakley spun on her heel in a languid saunter down the street. She did not turn back. If she had, she would have seen Ian Doyle disappear into the night, his shadow cast along the wall in lamp-light, four-legged and loping after him. 


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

**JULY - Full Moon**

 

“It's better to stand by someone's side than by yourself.”

― [Jack London](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1240.Jack_London)

 

 

_[Friday, July 31st. Night.]_

 

 _[The most common misunderstanding when it comes to werewolves is that the transformations they undergo are lunar-based. This is only partially true. The moon can have minor influences on physical appearance in the same way that hormonal imbalances can cause small skin blemishes. But total physical metamorphosis is not triggered by the fullness of the moon. A fuller moon may, however, make a wolf more irritable, or susceptible to depression. It can also give a wolf decreased energy and a shorter attention span. Dreams, as well, are vividly effected.]_  

 

In the days leading up to July's full moon, Geraldine Oakley's skin assumed the pallor of someone severely malnourished. At the same time, her sex-drive increased by leaps and bounds. She received very few complaints about this. 

She also became both passive and short-tempered. This she  _did_  receive complaints about, but she was always quick to apologize.

Ever since puberty, Oakley had suffered from an unpleasant pattern of moon-related symptoms. Her mother had often referred to it as _PFMS (pre-full-moon-syndrome)_. When Oakley wasn't weighed down by a blanket of depression, or chasing after Charles like a bitch in heat, she was easily annoyed by minuscule things, and prone to random (albeit unenthusiastic) outbursts of snapping. 

During these periods Oakley also became badly sleep-deprived, and because unconsciousness did not come easily for her, she often passed the nights leading up to the full moon with energetic rounds of lovemaking. 

On the night of full moon its self, however, Oakley fell asleep quickly and completely. For July's full moon, it was no different. 

Presently she rested naked in her bed, with the arms of her keeper and lover curled around her. There, she dreamt of wild and visceral things. Aggression and eroticism tinged her mind, culminating in a bloody fantasy that involved letting her true self roam free and unencumbered by the stresses and responsibilities of human life. 

In her dreams there was only pure, unrefined, animalistic violence.  

In the bed – a light shudder, Oakley stirring, with her long legs kicking the sheets into a bunched bundle. Beside her, Charles snored away, oblivious. But Oakley was someplace else. In her mind she lunged after some unidentified animal. A deer, most likely, or an elk. Just before she woke up, she felt the warm spray of arterial blood on her face as her imaginary jaws clamped around it's supple throat. 

When she woke the morning after, fresh from her hunting dream, she felt renewed. 

 

* * *

 

_[Wednesday, August 5th. Evening.]_

_[From the street, the front window of Lee Ho Fooks looks like a painting, silent and bright and full of colorful, talking people. Through the delicate patter of the rain on the glass, Ian Doyle and Grenadine Oakley sit at a small, square table near the front of the restaurant, and talk over steaming cups of tea. Oakley's lips move in a frenzied way. She is telling a story. She is exited about it. Happy for the first time in two weeks._

_Equally happy and totally engaged in what she's saying, is Ian Doyle. He sits on the opposite side of the table, both hands around his mug._ _He is pinned by the curious intensity of what she's telling him. His eyes do not leave her mouth, not even as he goes to take a sip of his tea.]_

 

On her second meeting with Ian Doyle, dreams became a large part of their dinner discussion. Oakley wanted to know what kind of dreams Doyle had during the full moon. He would not admit to much, but the scenario was similar. 

"Running." he told her, sounding slightly embarrassed. "Chasing, more like."

"Chasing after deer?" she inquired, fascinated.

He shook his head, picking up his mug – deliberately slow – to take a sip."Small things like squirrels, rabbits. A bird once. I dreamed I ate a bird. Can you imagine?"

"What kind of bird?" asked Oakley.

"An owl, I think. It's all a bit fuzzy." 

"I had one once," Oakley bragged, "A bird. Caught myself a turkey around Christmas. Had a flock of them come through our backyard, and my brothers and I went out and –"

"You mean, in a dream?" Doyle said. 

"No." Oakley clarified, and stuffed a quick bite of fried rice into her mouth. "Really happened."

Doyle's cup of tea stopped in front of his mouth. He looked dumbfounded. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually _killed_ a turkey?"

"Not me on my own. My brothers helped. And let me tell you, it was a big old thing. People think turkeys are small. They aren't. They'r huge. Bigger than swans. And only a little of that is feathers. Most of it's muscle. Damn thing put up a real fight." Oakley explained energetically. 

Doyle seemed to regard her in a new light. 

"You're not lying? You've honestly killed a real, live animal." he stated, mouth hanging open.

She nodded. "You don't believe me?" 

"I believe that you did it." he clarified. "I'm just . . . surprised that you did it. It's the face. You've got such a sweet face. Hardly the face of a killer."

"Aw, well shucks, scruff. I'm turning red over here." She let the yellow bleed into her eyes a bit and saw him shiver. "You know, it's not my real face." she reminded him.

He took a moment to rearrange himself. "Yes, I know it's not your real face. It's just hard to picture. I've never seen your pelt out."

"I don't know you well enough." she laughed. "I got a cow once." she said suddenly, prompted by the inexplicable need to dazzle him. "A full grown black baldy. See, there was this bar in town my cousin worked at. My brothers used to go there and get free drinks when she was bar tending. One night they snuck me in and got me hammered, and then we all decided to go cow-tipping. So we go over to old-man-Henderson's farm, and he's got a herd of black baldies. Not a big herd, maybe seven or eight altogether. We go to tip them, and they scatter. And my brother – Andy – he says 'Bet you can't get a nip on one' and I said 'Twenty bucks says I can'. And, uh, I did. Had to chase the damn thing around foreeeever, but I got it. Right on the ankle. Didn't kill it, but I won that twenty, you bet your ass. And you know what? They're tricky, too. Cows. They kick. I got kicked square in the face. Had a bruise the size of Texas from my forehead down to my chin on the right side, and the next day at school I had to lie and tell all my teachers that I got into a fight with some kid from another district. Know what I told them? That I beat the crap out of a bully. Get it? A bully?"

Oakley erupted into a guffaw of wicked cackles. Doyle simply stared at her, awe-struck. When he spoke, his voice was filled with reverent praise. 

"You're mad, you know. Absolutely mad. How did your parents feel when you told them you bit some poor, innocent milking cow?"

Oakley struggled to subdue her laughter. "Oh, my dad let me have it. Grounded me for a month. Not kidding. A whole month. Had a curfew and everything. Had to be in bed by seven every night, and at one point he sat me down and said –" she put her chin to her chest, deepening her voice. "He said 'The deer in back, they're okay. The turkeys and the rabbits, they're okay. No livestock. That's how a man makes a living. That's how wolves get caught, messing with a man's living.'"

"Sound advice from a sound man." Doyle said.

"Well, sure. But daddy never bit no cow before." Oakley replied, and sat back with a smug smile. 

"Most wolves haven't, I should think." Doyle replied, matching her smile. 

"What about you? You ever killed anything?"

His smile faltered. "Afraid not. Although I _have_ had my eye on this obnoxious little terrier that lives across the road from me. Barks at all hours of the night. Dreadful creature. You wouldn't be in the mood to take care of it for me, would you?"

"Sorry, no pets."

"I thought it was just the livestock that was off limits." he said with mock-accusation.

"Livestock and pets. A pet is a man's best friend. Can't go killing a man's best friend, it isn't right."

"Ah, but devouring turkeys whole is just fine, though."

"Better than me prowling around town, mutilating little old ladies' puppy-dogs."

"True." Doyle said, sitting back. "I suppose."

"You've really never killed anything, though?"

"No."

"That's hilarious." Oakley said with a loud clap of her hands.

Doyle twitched in his seat, irked by the ridicule. "Should I be ashamed? I never got the chance to kill anything. Are you going to hold that against me?"

"Mmm, no. Probably not, but one of these days I'll have to show you how it's done. Take you over to Hyde Park and terrorize the squirrels." 

"Would you like to go out this Friday?"

"What? Oh, no, I didn't mean – Fridays are pretty busy for me. Wednesdays are better."

"Next Wednesday, then?"

By God, he was persistent. 

"You're going to get sick of me." said Oakley.

Voice dipping low, Doyle said "Never."

For a moment, Oakley was pinned by his frosty gaze. His eyes were the fierce eyes of a predator, and Oakley thought she could see a muted fire smoldering in them. 

That night, below a cloudless, star speckled sky and the luminance of the waning moon, Oakley walked in Doyle's wake. They made it all the way to Kensal Green Cemetery, and slipped inside.

 

* * *

 

_[Kensal Green Cemetery is not just a cemetery. It is a cultural landscape. Located in the heart of London, it is one of the city's oldest and most distinguished public burial grounds. Comprised of 72 acres of beautiful grounds – including two conservation areas and an adjoining canal – this distinctive cemetery has a host of different memorials ranging from large mausoleums housing the rich and famous, to many distinctive smaller graves. Victorian novelists Anthony Trollope and William Makepeace Thackeray are buried here. Like Doyle and Oakley, they used to meet for evenings of conversation and conviviality – though their gatherings took place at the nearby house of now-forgotten novelist Harrison Ainsworth, rather than a Chinese restaurant.]_

 

On their stroll through the maze of aged and moss-covered headstones, Doyle gave Oakley the unofficial tour. When it came to the more uncommon sights of London, he knew a great many factual tidbits.

"This place is a terrific example of the Victorians’ obsession with their place of earthly rest. You've got your upper crust and your low brow together here." Doyle said, steering her around a jutting cross-shaped grave marker. 

There were few lights in the cemetery, but Oakley's nocturnal eyes picked up the layout of the area as if it were daytime. She let Doyle guide her by hand anyway. He lead her along the way a parent leads their child, mindful of her footing as well as his own.

According to Doyle, Kensal Green Cemetery was also home to an extensive collection of rose gardens. Doyle took her through row after row of rose trees – each one in its own plot, all individually accessible – and past carefully arranged beds of rose bushes, volunteering to pick whichever flower she liked best, despite the threat of thorn-cuts. 

"I'm really not a flower chick." Oakley told him, taking in the smell of the bloom. It was overpowering. So was his musk.

They walked on in silence, and soon reversed back in the direction of the exit. Doyle was very close to her as they went, and in a moment of sobering introspection, Oakley realized that he was well within the sphere of her personal space. And that she had somehow given him her implicit permission to be.

Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled Doyle aside with a firm yank and said "This is nice. But I think we need to address something."

Doyle looked back at her with scrunching eyebrows. 

"You and me – we're buddies." said Oakley. She had hoped she wouldn't have to put a label it. She felt uneasy doing so. At the same time, she wanted no misunderstandings. Above all, Oakley believed in loyalty, and she wanted to make it clear that nothing would compromise her loyalty to Charles. "Just buddies." she specified grimly.    

Doyle untangled his hand from hers as if it had been singed. She watched it drop stiffly to his side. 

"I understand." he replied, voice hollow.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to be a bitch – no pun intended." she asserted, fixing him with a stern but apologetic glare. "I enjoyed tonight. I enjoyed last Wednesday, too. I want to enjoy _next_ Wednesday, but I don't want to start a pack here. You follow me?"

"I follow you."

Geraldine Oakley, excellent reader of people, could not tell from Doyle's expression whether or not he was offended. But looking at him hard, she could have sworn she saw something pass over his face – what could have been the possible glimmer of dashed hopes – and for the briefest of moments he looked like a man whose barrier of happiness had been viciously pierced, leaving him to drown in a bland and cruel reality.

"Charles will want you back now, I expect." said Doyle numbly.

Oakley nodded once and that was the end of it. They left the cemetery and Doyle called her a cab. Just before she got in, he caught her arm.

"I'm sorry." he told her, face pulled into a tight grimace. "If I behaved inappropriately in any way–"

"Scruff –"

"Ian. Please." he implored. 

"Ian," she parroted. "Man, don't worry about it."

"I know you have a – I know you're with Charles." Doyle declared unhappily. "My intention was never to . . . It's complicated. When you’re an – well an introvert, I suppose, like I am . . . When you’ve been lonely for as long as I have, and you find someone who understands you, someone who's _like_ you, who can tolerate you, you become quite attached to them. It’s difficult for me, being around people. With people . . . I have to fake it with people. I have to fake being a person, when I’m with people. But when I’m with you, I feel like I can be myself. It’s a release. But I'm bad at it. I don't know how communicating with another wolf really works. I do know I like being around you, though. I never meant to give you the wrong idea, or offend you. If I came on strong, I  _am_ sorry."

She waited for him to finish.

"If you're keen on it, I would like to make a real friendship of this.” he said quietly, letting go of her arm. 

He seemed braced for further rejection, and she found herself feeling sorry for him. She put a hand on his shoulder, tender and considerate. "I could use another wolf in my life, Ian. Think we both could."

A silent understanding passed between them.

"See you next week?" said Oakley. When he didn't respond, she cocked her head with a huff and stole a quick hug. Drawing back, she saw him looking dazed. She left him like that, staggered by the side of the street, breathing in the fumes of the noisy cab and the calm, early-August air. 

Later, in bed and sleeping soundly, Oakley dreamed not of the frenzy of the kill, but of the sacred mating rituals of wolves. The details of her partner's face were blurred into a tangle of graying hair and fangs, but one characteristic remained unobscured. A pair of crisp, blue eyes. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

**4.**

**AUGUST - Waning Gibbous**

 

“May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.”

― [Franz Kafka](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5223.Franz_Kafka)

 

 

 

_[Wednesday, August 5th. Evening.]_

 

_[Doyle's bedroom is at the highest, center point of the building. Three storeys up, it overlooks the south side of Soho and in the distance provides an excellent view of Big Ben. By the window there is a large, kneehole writing desk, and at the desk, half draped in shadows and feverish with inspiration, is Ian Doyle. He is sketching a face onto a strathmore pad with a piece of sharpened charcoal. Oakley, as he saw her in the cemetery. It has been five hours since they parted. He can not sleep. An ambition, lying long dormant, has stirred suddenly awake in him. It demands to be released, moves his hands and coils his stomach, urges him to draw. To create._

_Around him, tacked on the walls, are his other works. Paintings, sketches. Forlorn landscapes, watercolors of nonexistent beaches and lighthouses. No forests. No mountain ranges. No self-portraits. All of it imagined, none of it from source. Outside his window, light from the moon filters in, a cool wash of blue on the burgundy carpet. The moonlight makes his eyes, wide and focused under a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, appear eerily luminous in the dark.]_

 

Hunched over his drawing pad, Ian Doyle concentrated on Geraldine Oakley's face, conjuring the image (still fresh from their outing) into his mind, ruminating on every minute detail that memory could bring to him. Fine skin, thick hair, delicate nose and ears. Full lips, recently licked, with an enticing sheen of saliva on them. In the cemetery, her eyes had been bright but hardened. In his sketch he gave her soft, sad eyes. 

He considered the way he wanted to appear in her eyes. Certainly not in his present role, as friend only. 

Doyle paused, charcoal hovering above the pad. Somehow, something had happened in the cemetery. He didn't know what. Perhaps Oakley had misinterpreted his signals. He didn't think he had extended any kind of unconscious invitation to her. Then again, he wasn't entirely sure. Either way, Oakley had taken the offensive. At the same time, she had also agreed to give him a second chance – at friendship. All he had to do was avoid discouraging her from carrying on that friendship with him.

_Friendship is just as good. Isn't it?_ Doyle asked himself.

The answer shocked him.

He set the charcoal down, removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Damn." he said dismally.

Doyle sighed in the dark. He liked to pretend that his life was a single, long series of paintings. Up until recently, they had been stark, black and white acrylic things featuring little detail or depth. Recently, though, the style had shifted, and everything had become crisp and vibrant and colorful. And he knew that Oakley was to blame. Since meeting her, Doyle had felt revitalized. More alive than he had in years. He didn't want Oakley's rejection of his affections to be a denial of his new-found energies.  
  
_Nor will they. You're a big boy now. She's inaccessible. You'll get over it._

For a short time Doyle remained at his desk, trying hard to convince himself. To take it like an adult and let it go – but his stomach remained uncomfortably tight. Eventually he stood and began to pace around the room. On his final lap he made his way over to the coat rack by the door, grabbed his coat and keys, and left.

 

* * *

 

_[St. Patrick’s church in Soho has an unusual, longish shape due to plot constrictions given at the time of it’s construction. From a distance the thin, angular bell-tower looks not unlike a lean finger pointing up at the hanging moon._

_Ian Doyle approaches the arched, oak door of the church from the sidewalk. The main entrance to the church has a Roman-style porch with Corinthian columns. Above the entrance is an inscription: "VT CHRISTIANI ITA ET ROMANI SITIS". “Be ye Christians as those of the Roman Church”. It is a quote taken from the writings of St. Patrick. Doyle tests the knob, finds it unlocked, and goes inside.]_

 

Doyle stopped under the lintel and felt at once out of place in the cavernous church. He let the heavy wooden door creak shut behind him, and looked around. He knew only a handful of things about St. Patrick's. First, that it was over 200 years old, as most churches in the country were. Second, that it had recently been refurbished. And last – below the smooth terrazzo floors and further afield, were extensive catacombs. 

_Cemeteries and catacombs. Tonight I seem destined to trample the dead_ , Doyle thought blackly. 

Creeping across the threshold, he came into the hall and saw that there was no blurring of the boundary between the nave and sanctuary. A pair of angels (carved in white marble) decorated the front of the nave. They stood on wooden pedestals, one on either side of him, their heads bowed in serene supplication, holding basins full of stagnate holy water. 

Doyle dabbed a finger into the nearest basin and brought it to his nose. The water smelled unbelievably foul. With a grimace, Doyle wiped his hand across his trouser leg and moved past the angels into the sanctuary. Farther in, there were other odors to address. Deteriorating paint and plaster, damp, dry rot, the faint smell of smoke and melting candle wax. 

The vault of the empty church was lit by subtle, indirect lighting provided by cold cathode lamps hidden from view by the ledges that supported them. The gold leaf used to identify the sanctuary and emphasize the cornice below the clerestory caught the light and shimmered in an almost spectral way.

Doyle thought the interior of the church was simple but ornate. He saw the inspiration behind the architecture. Thoroughly Italian Renaissance, consistent with the church’s likely provenance in the overall shape of Alberti’s Sant’Andrea in Mantua and in the detail of Santo Spirito in Florence. He liked the wide rounded ceilings and polished wooden pews. But he did not question the liturgy or its interpretation. Doyle wasn’t interested in the heart of the building or the spirit it contained. He was as remote from God as his mother had been. According to her, if God existed, He was an unnecessarily cruel deity, and did not require the worship of the creatures that were burned at the stake in His name. 

Unlike his mother, though, Doyle did not blame God for his paranormal origins. Doyle viewed himself as neither cursed nor superior. He would never understand why some people blamed God for their natures. Birth was circumstantial, but nature stemmed from actions. Doyle believed the path one took depended entirely on the choices they made. God had little, if anything, to do with it. 

Doyle made his way towards the pews and stopped abruptly when he caught the sound of footsteps echoing through the room. Doyle tensed and watched as a single, dark-skinned priest came into sight at the far side of the abbey, carrying a broom. He started to sweep the steps by the altar. Doyle waited for the priest to notice him. When he didn’t, Doyle spoke up. 

"Excuse me. Are you open?"

The priest looked up from his sweeping and gave Doyle a welcoming smile. "This is God's house, my son. We're always open."

Doyle settled into one of the pews at the back by the aisle. The priest went back to sweeping. After a minute Doyle said "It's lovely in here. Very quiet. Clean." 

The priest stopped sweeping again and looked at Doyle.

“I’m not a religious man. Haven't been to a church in decades.” Doyle said, more as a disclaimer than a proclamation of his beliefs.

The priest quirked an eyebrow at him. “Oh? Then why are you here, my son?”

Doyle clenched his jaw. “I'm not sure. Have you got a name?"

"Father Eugene Francis." 

"Ian Doyle."

Somewhere by the altar a rat scuttled across the stone floor. Doyle listened to the crisp tap of it's little claws until it disappeared behind a wall.

"Wasn't it Saint Francis who spoke with the wolf of Gubbio?" he asked aloud, musing.

"That's right." said the priest. He sounded surprised.

"I said I wasn't religious. That doesn't make me ignorant. As a boy, my school was Church of England, you know. They made us attend the services. Sing the hymns. I've even read the bible. I like the morals, but the execution of them always seemed forced to me. The crusades are a good example. And the witch hunts."

"I agree. God's message is peace. Not violence."

Doyle looked past the priest at the large cross hanging above the altar. There was terrific detail in Jesus' pained expression, but the blood on the wrists seemed garishly red under the accent lights.

Still staring at the cross, Doyle said "I have a dilemma, Father."

The young man nodded. "You need some advice?"

"Yes. There’s this girl . . .”

Doyle trailed off and thought about how he should put it. He wanted to be direct enough so that there were no misunderstandings, but at the same time, the phrasing had to be right. He didn't want to incriminate himself.

_There's a girl and I'm in love with her? No, it's too soon for love. Pick a different word. Something smaller._

"There’s a girl I find myself enamored with." said Doyle. "And that’s exactly what she is, too. A girl. She’s half my age, give or take a few years, and we’ve only just met but . . . I honestly think there’s a connection between us. We're very much alike. We’re the same, just about. I’ve never come across anything like that before. She's been in my head for days now. Taken up a kind of permanent residence there, I'm afraid. I try not to think about her. I try and distract myself. I try to focus on my work and my hobbies but it doesn't help.” He paused a moment to suck in a quick breath. “She’s told me she wants to be friends, Father.” 

“I see.” said the priest. He came down the aisle with the broom still in hand, and sat facing Doyle in the adjacent pew. He smelled of dusty paper and pomade. 

Doyle felt suddenly anxious. 

“I never propositioned her. ” he said quickly. "She doesn't know I feel this way. _I_ hardly knew I felt this way until just recently. At any rate, I told her I'd like to be friends, too."  

“Friendship is a good thing, my son.” said the priest.

“Yes, I know it is, Father.” Doyle agreed. As Oakley’s friend he could still learn about her, and about himself – about his true self. Still, he felt dissatisfied with the idea of drawing the line at friendship, and knowing he felt dissatisfied made him uneasy with guilt.

“I know friendship is good, only I think . . . I mean, I know it’s positively daft but, I think I might want more from her.“ Doyle tried to explain. “I wasn't even fully aware of what I wanted until she told me I couldn't have it. And I know I shouldn't want more, Father. I know I should be happy with my lot. It’s greedy and impractical of me to want more. After all, we’ve only just met, and she's much too young for me. And she already loves somebody else. She lives with him.” Doyle rationalized. “But I can't seem to dissuade myself from wanting more. I guess the reason I came here tonight was, well really, I’d just like somebody to snap me out of it. Talk some sense into me. Tell me how to get her out of my head. I don't want to jeopardize the possibility of a friendship with this person by complicating things. Neither of us deserves that.” 

The priest nodded. “You said you have no other friends to speak with?”

“I don’t get on with people. She's the exception."

A moment of quiet. Doyle thought he could hear the ring of the priest's judgement. Then–

“What about relatives?”

Doyle said “My mother is deceased. There isn’t anybody else.”

A long pause. Then – “Have you considered that you may be acting out of loneliness? That you don’t really want a romance with this woman. That the idea of having a companion, any companion, in your life is what really appeals to you?”  
  
Doyle shook his head. He knew, deep down, that loneliness wasn't the cause of the dizzying tension in his stomach. He was well enough versed in loneliness to recognize the difference in symptoms. He felt neither vulnerable nor desperate. Only confused, and while the possibility of mistaking loneliness for love was there, he had the distinct impression that what was driving him to seek out a closeness with Oakley was not loneliness – but attraction.  
  
_Attraction to what_ _,_ he wondered. Which aspect of Oakley did he find so alluring? Was it the fact that she was a wolf? Was it the fact that she was a woman? Was it the fact that she was both? Phrases like _animal magnetism_ and _pheromones_ floated through his head. It made some sense that his body was only reacting to the presence of a female. But surely he wasn't operating on biology alone. He hated to think of himself as being so transparent and fickle.   
  
“I don’t think it’s loneliness, Father. Or, if it is, it isn’t _only_ loneliness. I could make a friend easily enough, I suppose. With her, though, it's something else. There's more behind it.”

“I see.”  
  
Doyle scowled. He hated blanket statements. Especially ones that were designed to mask scrutiny.  
  
“Can you tell me a little about this woman?” the priest asked him.  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
“Describe her for me.”  
  
Doyle felt his fangs slip out unchecked. “How do you _mean_? Do you want me to describe her personality? Her looks? Specify, for God's sake.”  
  
The priest was calm. Forgiving. “What comes to mind when you think of her?”  
  
Doyle scratched his chin and tried to relax. In his head he reviewed Oakley, again and again, mentally refreshing the image many times a second and turning it in space. Oakley was fragrant and wonderful to touch. Holding her hand had been indescribable. Hugging her an almost painful kind of bliss. But the visual aspects were first in Doyle's mind. He viewed her like a work of art, a portrait that already existed.

“Aesthetics, I guess." Doyle answered. "I’m a visual man.”  
  
“That’s fine. What does she look like?”

Doyle cleared his throat and proceeded carefully. “She’s pretty. Not beautiful, you understand. I know beautiful women. I’ve seen beautiful women. I see them all the time. I see their beauty and I analyze it. That's what I do. Beauty and prettiness don't usually effect me.”

"You said this girl was pretty. In what way is she pretty to you?"

"She's only pretty in the classical sense. You know. Big, expressive eyes. Long hair. Soft, fair skin. Good mouth. Commonplace traits." Doyle said dismissively. He struggled to name the ugliness in her. “Besides that, she's rather short, and round in the, um, hips. And the rest of her is very wiry. She’s actually a little wisp of a thing. Hardly anything special at all, really. Crooked teeth, terrible accent, thin nose. She has her flaws, I notice them. I don't overlook. I don't idolize. I'm a practical man." 

The priest looked skeptical, but said "Would you say her flaws bother you?"

A fraction's worth of hesitation. "No."

"Is that strange for you?"

Doyle gave an indifferent shrug.

“Do you feel the two of you have a lot in common?" asked the priest.

"I think so." Doyle said. "We have similar interests. I don't know her all that well yet, to be honest with you."

"But you know her well enough to think you're both the same?"

"No, that's different. It's difficult to describe. She and I – we're the same type of – of person. Of animal. Do you understand? Oh, never mind. I know what you'll say. I'm a silly twat for wanting to be with someone I hardly know." 

"Not necessarily."

"Then you'll tell me it's a sin to covet someone else’s – well, she isn’t his wife, but she might as bloody well be.”

"It doesn't sound to me like you're coveting yet."

"So you imply I _will_ covet. Right. Well what do you and the man upstairs propose I do, then, hmm?" he growled back. He sounded both hopeless and helpless. "Am I supposed to avoid her? Sever all ties. We've only just agreed to be friends. I can't go back on that so soon. I could hurt her. And anyway I _want_ to be friends with her. I want to know what I am, damn it all. She might be my only chance left to find out." 

The priest scooted forward on the pew.

"You want my advice? Be friends." the priest told him. "Get to know her thoroughly. Your infatuation is based on physical temptation. Talk to her, and in time, you may come to realize you both have very little in common. Who knows. She may even start to grate on you after a while." 

Doyle eyed the priest, intrigued. "You're talking about over-saturation." 

"If that's the way you want to see it."

Doyle's mouth curled into a lopsided grin. He was surprised by how insightful the suggestion was.

“All right, that could work. But what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just ignore this – this damn ache? That’s what it is, you know. An ache. The most marvelous, _terrible_ ache.” 

The priest tipped his head back, thinking. "You said you had hobbies. What kind of hobbies do you have?"

"I sketch sometimes. I'm not very good."

"And you sketch to distract yourself?"

"That's right."

"What do you find yourself sketching?"

"Lately? Her." Doyle confessed. 

“I see." said the priest. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. It's possible He brought this woman into your life not for the purposes of love, but as an inspiration. To be your muse.”

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "I don't follow you."

The priest said “When you feel yourself getting worked up over this woman, focus on your hobby. Draw her, if you want to. Get her out of your system that way. It's healthy, it's productive, it'll help you feel better.”

Doyle sat back in quiet contemplation. 

He could do it. He could become creative again, something that had not happened in over eight years. He could put away these silly fantasies of youth and love and take whatever time he was granted with Oakley to devote himself to his craft. He could impress her with his talent and his friendliness, and if he could not have her for himself in a physical way, then he could keep her image as his muse and gleam from their meetings all the inspiration for his art, and all the knowledge about wolves, that he absolutely could. 

"What if doesn't work?" Doyle asked the priest. "What if none of it works and things get worse and I wind up falling–"

"Have faith." the priest insisted. "The Lord will give you strength. He guides us and tests us throughout our lives. His goal is to see you flourish."

"No offense but _I_ think His goal at the moment is to see me _squirm_." Doyle sneered. 

"Everything happens for a reason, my son. You'll be all right." the priest assured him.

For the first time since Oakley left him in the cemetery, Doyle felt a flicker of hope for himself. He stood up to button his jacket, and the priest stood along with him. Together they walked to the door. Doyle turned and offered his hand to the priest. "Thank you, Father. _Francis_."

"You're welcome, my son. Come back any time." the priest replied. 

When Doyle returned home he sat back down at his desk, picked up the charcoal, and refocused on Oakley as a subject – on recreating her image. He wanted to represent her likeness exactly, to do her feisty spirit justice, but he was a perfectionist when it came to his art, and often wound up over-critiquing himself. That night was no different. 

No matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to capture her essence with the charcoal the way he truly wanted to. By the time he finally decided to call it quits, dawn had already broken.

 

* * *

 

Over the next several days, Doyle recoiled on himself, and strove to develop his artistic processes. He was glad for the week. Part of him wished he could've gone right back to Lee Ho Fooks on Thursday night and seen Oakley again, but he grudgingly admitted that they both needed some time to think after what had happened. 

During his downtime at work on Friday he produced over a dozen, detailed sketches of Oakley, none of which he was happy with. He devoted a drawer of his desk (the only one that locked) to storing the leftover drawings. When nighttime came he did not sleep. After sketching until his hand was too stiff to hold a pencil, he went to bed and was plagued by feverish dreams. He returned to his desk no less than then an hour later to sit by himself in the dark. There he stayed – struggling with all the twistings of emotion and conscience, desire and regret, longing and recrimination – until he saw sunlight rise behind the curtains.

Saturday was spent in a daze of sullen fatigue. In the evening Doyle tried once or twice to produce a decent sketch of Oakley, but he wound up falling asleep, fully clothed, at his desk instead. When he woke the next morning, palms smeared with grey-black dust, he realized that – in the last moments before sleep claimed him – his sketch of Oakley had begun to warp into an abstract image of his mother.

On Sunday, Doyle attempted to render Oakley in chalk-pastel, but the lips came out too thin, and the cheekbones weren't symmetrical. Holding the drawing at arms length, Doyle considered his options. Altering the drawing would be impossible, so he was left to debate whether trying again with a new page was really worth it. Eventually he decided that he could never achieve the right accuracy with the pastels. He lacked the experience. In the end, he wound up switching back to charcoal.

By the end of the day on Tuesday, Doyle had completely run out of charcoal. Without an artistic outlet, he found it nearly impossible to dislodge Oakley from his mind. Whenever he found himself with a spare second at work, his thoughts would drift back to her brazen image. 

In the evening, he unlocked his desk drawer, and busied himself with organizing his store of drawings – re-ordering them from best, to worst. At one point he glared at Oakley’s charcoal counterpart, his inner self-loathing howling madly from the pit of his stomach. With her bright, lifeless eyes and her angelic hair flowing out around her face, she looked almost like she was laying in bed.

Doyle pictured her then, asleep in his arms. Saw himself twining a strand of her dark hair (soft like silk) idly around his fingers as she dozed.

Face flush with embarrassment, he quickly stuffed the drawings back into the drawer of his desk and locked it. After a minute he stood and pushed the rickety window open. A cool draft came immediately to him. 

“I’ll bet you she probably looks horrendous in the mornings,” he attempted feebly. “With her hair gnarled and greasy and . . . unkempt."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the image of Oakley to recede. Afterward, he paid his pennants by suffering a handful of grueling reality-TV shows, and an undercooked dinner-for-one.  It was early in the evening when he finally gave up on the television, and went to bed. He endured a night's worth of fitful dreams and little rest, and on Tuesday he went out early to procure as many drawing supplies as he could afford. 

Doyle spent the majority of Wednesday compiling a list of questions in his head. Things he wanted to ask Oakley, thing he was desperate to know – things he thought would help him see her in a different, more unattractive light. As soon as he left his flat in the evening, though, the questions flew from his head like scattering birds, and Doyle found himself at Lee Ho Fooks, sitting alone at a table for two with his hands folded neatly in front of him, staring patiently out of the rain-streaked window and wondering just what the hell he was going to say to Oakley once she jointed him. 

Beneath his mask of composure, anticipation gripped him. It sent his foot jiggling anxiously under the table, made his tongue thick and dry inside his mouth. His hands quivered uncontrollably, and it became nearly impossible for him to hold his teaspoon, let alone stir his tea. 

Setting the spoon down on a napkin, Doyle took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. He decided the best thing to do was take the time before Oakley arrived to mentally prepare. It was his aim to do nothing that might provoke her. To say nothing she could misconstrue as impolite or flirtatious. When she got there, he would be impeccably courteous, and aloof enough not to arouse suspicion. 

He imagined Oakley sitting across from him. Licking her lips. Her dark eyes slanted just barely, shining that mild yellow color that made his chest tight. He tried to picture himself talking to her. He wanted to make her laugh with some witty, intelligent quip. Nothing intelligent or witty came to mind. 

Doyle sighed and bunched his shaking hands into fists. _Damn it all. I should have rehearsed this in my room. I should have practiced_. 

He glanced down at his watch and frowned. Oakley was running late. Only by a few minutes, but it was enough of a delay to give him cause to worry. 

_What if she doesn't show up?_ he thought grimly.

Granted, they had agreed to another dinner together on the previous Wednesday, but supposing she'd changed her mind some time during the week. Supposing she'd decided to stand him up. Leave him waiting there all night – the lonely laughing-stock of the restaurant.

Suddenly the little table by the window was stifling. Doyle quickly unbuttoned his shirt-collar and fanned his face. He wished he had access to a real breeze. 

Oakley's smell drifted to him then, a kind of strong comfort that cut swiftly through the stench of garlic and his own fear-tinged sweat. He took a single, purifying sniff and the knot in his stomach that had been there for almost a week dissolved into a warm, wet feeling both delicious and uncomfortable.

He heard her voice before he saw her.

"Nice clothes, for an art dealer."

Then she came around the table, and he forgot how to speak. She was dressed in an easy-fitting burgundy dress, the kind that would spark arousal even in a celibate man. Suddenly an avalanche of compliments rushed him, and he felt the blinding urge to blurt out every single one in a frantic yelp. _You look fantastic tonight. You smell divine, like heaven. And consequently, I've been thinking about you since last bloody Wednesday._ He bit down hard on his tongue before the words could escape and betray him.

Meanwhile, Oakley was growing visibly impatient. She tapped his hand and said "Hello in there? Ground control to Major Tom."

Doyle felt a bolt of heat leap from her soft fingers into his hand, and jumped as the bulk of the attraction he had been trying all week to suppress threatened to reemerge with a vengeance. He wanted to kick himself for letting his guard down. 

Desperately he scrambled to wrestle the intrusive thoughts back down into the attic of his lecherous mind.

"Oh! Um, hello again." he finally squeaked. Even in his own ears the light tone of his voice rang false. He grabbed his mug and held it up in front of himself protectively, in case she felt the need to touch him again.

"Glad to have you back, scruff. Had me worried there for a second." said Oakley as she sat down. The expression she wore was one of happy resignation, but Doyle could hear the underlying gravity in her voice. With astonishment he realized that she too was nervous. He wondered why. 

They sat in uneasy silence for a minute. Oakley seemed happy to ignore the conflicted cloud of emotions that hung in the air between them. Doyle, on the other hand, grappled for something to say. Some safe remark about politics or the state of the weather. Nothing at all about how much he appreciated the way the fabric of her dress hugged the curves of her breasts. He opened his mouth to speak, but Oakley beat him to it.

"So . . . what do you call a werewolf with no legs?" she asked him.

Doyle's eyebrows scrunched together. "I'm not sure." he said, confused. "What?"

Oakley looked at him then, her dark eyes sly and shining, her lips parted in a half smile. "Call him anything you want. He can't chase you." she replied.

For a moment Doyle didn't know how to respond. "Did – Was that a joke you just told?"

"Sure. I got a million of them. Here – how did the little Scottish dog feel when he saw a werewolf?"

"I don't know."

"Terrier-fied." she laughed. "Get it? _Terrier_ -fied?"

Doyle couldn't help but smile at her. "Very cute."

Oakley laughed again. A light, musical sound. "What’s a werewolf’s favorite nighttime story? A hairy tail." 

Doyle chuckled. He could feel the tension between them start to break. 

"You want to tell one?" Oakley offered.

"Hmm. Let's see." he said, stroking his chin. "What type of markets do werewolves avoid?"

"Flea markets." Oakley guessed.

"Oh, you've heard that one before."

"If it's a bad werewolf joke, chances are I've got it on file." she said, poking at her left temple. 

Doyle gave Oakley a warm, thankful smile, and let himself relax. Assured by the feeling that everything was going to be all right. 

 

* * *

 

_[Wednesday. August 12th. Evening.]_

_[Water splashes violently against the overhang of Lee Ho Fooks._ _Outside, the world is nothing but wet awnings and dripping overhangs. Inside, Gerladine Oakley is making her way towards the tables as the far back of the restaurant. Towards Ian Doyle. Fear and resignation are apparent on her features, and the way she moves suggests a fidgety lack of confidence.]_

 

As Oakley rounded the small wooden table, she said "Nice clothes. For an art dealer."

Doyle didn't reply. He was staring at her, his eyes wide and glossy. It was as though he were looking at something that defied reality. 

Oakley reached across the table and tapped him on the hand. "Hello in there? Ground control to Major Tom."

Startled, Doyle hopped in his seat and said, "Oh! Um, hello again."

She found his squeamishness both ridiculous and endearing. "Glad to have you back, scruff. Had me worried there for a second."

Doyle nodded, grasping his mug in an inhibited way, like he had secretly made it a point to stay well outside her area of personal space. Oakley figured he was just being polite. She gave him a cautious smile, took her seat at the table, and looked around. The atmosphere was pleasant enough – quiet and warm, not too busy – but she sensed some tension in the air. She tried to pinpoint the cause, and was mildly disappointed to find herself anticipating some awful mix of anger and resentment from him. She had no idea why. Doyle had never told her directly that he wanted their relationship to be anything other than platonic. But on their previous outing Oakley had gone and made the mistake of vainly assuming that he did. Part of her regretted that prejudice – even though she refused to view her dismissal of Doyle's possible affection as a spurn. After all, she was equipped with the feminine right to draw a line in the proverbial sand whenever it came to establishing connections with men that she did not know.

Still, forcing Doyle to transition out of the part of possible suitor, and into the part of phlegmatic friend so abruptly had left Oakley worried that she had offended him in some less-than-obvious way. For the better part of a week she had been left to ruminate on her actions, trying to guess at how Doyle might react the she time saw him. Now that they were finally sitting face-to-face again, she half-expected some cumbersome amount of manly brooding from Doyle. 

In an effort to diminish the tension, Oakley tried her hand at telling a joke. Her brother Andy had once told her that telling a joke was the best way of resuscitating a conversation. "But it has to a bad joke. The dumbest joke you can think of. And if the other person doesn't laugh, than the bad vibes are on them." 

Oakley fixed Doyle with a carefree gaze and told her joke. Then she held her breath, and braced herself for the inevitable chagrin of the unamused. Doyle surprised her by displaying a refreshingly gracious, albeit noticeably stiff attitude towards her. She told another joke, and got the same reaction. Before she knew it, they were both talking easily with one another, as if the awkwardness of the previous Wednesday had never happened. 

Eventually the waitress came over and they placed their order. While they waited for their food to come, they chatted about their respective schedules, about the overtime shifts Oakley had been forced to take on (again), about the paintings Doyle was trying to sell.

Oakley spent most of that time sipping her tea and looking at Doyle over the rim of her mug with a certain amount of incredulity. She was thankful that he had not chosen to be petty and sulk, but it was disconcerting to know that she still hadn’t figured out a way to accurately predict him.

As the evening progressed, Oakley routinely checked to make sure there were no signs of devastation in Doyle. Every now and again, his eyes would linger on her, and if she squinted hard enough, she thought she could almost detect a kind of distant remorse in his expression. Something haunting and sad, lurking just behind the guise of his respectful friendliness. Once or twice she tried to touch him, but he was somehow able to anticipate her moves and avoid them in casual, innocent ways. Beyond that, he gave no indication that he was in any way unhappy with her.

When their food came they spoke at length about their individual ambitions, or lack there-of. Oakley explained that she didn't want much out of life except good company and a little bit of excitement here and there – although, when Doyle probed her, she neglected to specify exactly what kind of excitement she was looking for. 

"Eh, the usual stuff. You know how it is." said Oakley. "What about you? What's your end goal, scruff?"

"Well I'd like to sell those paintings, for a start." Doyle replied, playing with his tea-spoon. "There's a German fellow who keeps coming by, prodding me to let him have an extra spot on the wall. I keep saying I haven't got the room. It's true. I haven't got the room. But he keeps coming by with new pieces and bothering me about it."

Oakley hummed into her tea. “Have _you_ painted anything recently?” she asked him.

Doyle dropped the spoon. It landed with a brittle clang against the tabletop. “Erm, not painted, per say. I’ve been sketching, though.” 

“Anything fun?”

“Just . . . people.” he replied, a slight blush rising on his cheeks.

“Oh? You mean, like, portraits?”

“Sort of.” 

"Where do you sketch? Do you have a studio?"

"I tend to sketch at home." Doyle told her.

Oakley attempted to picture Doyle's living space. Or, more specifically, his bedroom. She had a feeling that was where the _magic_ happened. She conjured visions of a small dark garret, a rumpled bed, stains on the sheets, the smells of rut.

_That's not right. Get your head out of the gutter_. She erased the previous image and tried again. The one that came next was classier, more Doyle. A spacious bedroom with tastefully sponge-painted walls. A wooden bureau, a large bed with fine silk sheets and three soft pillows on each side. An easel stood up by a wide window. 

“Have you ever been commissioned to do a portrait before?" she asked him. "Would you do one of me, if I asked you to?”

At first, Doyle was reluctant to answer. He looked like he was arguing with himself. Then he met her gaze and held it. “If you asked me to.” he replied. 

“Hey, all right. Do it. Sketch one up, my man.”

Needing no further persuasion Doyle reached into his trouser pocket, withdrew a ballpoint pen, and began sketching onto a spare napkin. Intrigued, Oakley leaned forward, straining to get a better look. 

“No peaking.” he requested, keeping his eyes trained on the napkin.

Pouting, Oakley sat back down and busied herself with her tea until he was finished. 

Handing her the napkin Doyle said “It’s not very good, but you get the idea.”

Oakley scanned the collection of pen-marks on the napkin, and grinned – amazed by how detailed the image was.

“Holy shit.” she breathed, gawking. “Is that really me?”

“Supposed to be, but it’s honestly not very good.” he repeated apologetically.

“Not very good? Scruff, this is great. You’ve got skills. I mean that took you – what – all of two seconds?”

“Yes, well, I’ve had practice. Years of practice, I mean. Schooling, what not. You can keep that, if you like. Or toss it in the bin. Most of the things I draw are rubbish, anyway.” he said, indicating the napkin.

Still smiling, Oakley carefully tucked his gift into the outer-most compartment of her purse, careful not to crease the edges. 

“Damn. Wish I could be creative.” she said, setting her purse back under the table.

“Everyone has their own special talent. I’m guessing you can do a lot of interesting things yourself.“ said Doyle.

She considered that for a moment, wondering which of her traits was appropriate to highlight.

“Umm, I’m a good smeller." she told him. "That is, I’m good at smelling things. I’m kind of like a bloodhound that way. Sometimes I sniff the suitcases with the airport dogs just for fun. You know, you can learn a lot about a person by smelling them. As weird as that sounds.” she laughed. “Hell, I can probably tell you something about each and every person in this place, just by using my nose.”

“Can you really?” Doyle said, riveted. He rested his hands on his chin in a posture of prim expectancy. “Go on, then. Show me how you do it.”

“All right. Who should I start with? Give me a candidate.”

Doyle glanced around the crowded restaurant and gestured to an elderly couple who were seated by the door. Oakley nodded at him, twisted in her chair, and flared her nostrils in their direction. A wave of different fragrances filled her head. Foremost among them were the smells of the restaurant. Roasted garlic and the smoky smell of slowly-cooked meat. The sizzling, heady scent of frying dough. Old yeast and stale tea bags, melted cheese. Humidity-borne mildew and the standard chemical-stink of cleaning supplies. Oakley inhaled again, narrowing her focus until she caught the rotten, sour pinch of diseased skin and sweaty fabric.

“Okay, well,  _she_  has a foot infection," Oakley began after a minute. "A bad one. And  _he_  hasn’t showered in, oh, I’d say about four days now, at least.”

Doyle’s eyebrows furrowed in an expression of unadulterated disgust. “Good lord.”

“Want me do another one?”

“Please. Someone pleasant this time.”

“All right . . . How about the fresh young get-up in the yellow skirt over there?” 

“If you like.”

Breathing deeply, Oakley searched through the calming aroma of the woman's lavender perfume, the powdery smell of her makeup and fruity tint of body-lotion, down to the dull, ceramic scent of fresh nail-polish. Oakley dipped her head, took another breath and moved lower, skimming past the woman's silk stockings, past the plastic straps of her well-worn pumps, and stopping at the dry leather of the handbag that rested by the woman's left ankle. A final whiff brought Oakley a balm of peppery citrus, cocoa and wet latex.

“Hmm. So she’s got a can of mace in her purse, and a chocolate bar. Mars Bar, I think. And –“ She sniffed again. “– an expired condom, too.”

“Yes, but the real question is, in what order will she use them?”

Oakley giggled.

“How about that one, there, by the potted plant?” Doyle suggested.

Oakley snorted as she sucked in the odor of bird dander and droppings. 

“Ugh. She owns a parrot. She probably takes it out of the cage and handles it a lot. Totally reeks of the thing.”

Doyle shook his head. “How about him – the man sitting in the booth beside her? No, no, the one on the left.”

Oakley said “He’s wearing a new shirt. Cotton polyester blend. Can still smell the formaldehyde on it. Trousers are old though, and dirty. There’s a stain on them. Dried cu–“ She checked herself and paused to think of a better term for it. “Actually, let’s just call it  _love residue_ , shall we.” 

Doyle’s eyebrows shot up. “You can smell that?” he said, aghast.

Oakley shrugged, pleased with the way the evening was turning out. “Sometimes it’s a gift, sometimes it’s a curse. All depends on the moment, really.”

“Ah.” said Doyle. With his eyes boring into her he asked “And what about me, Gerry? What do I smell of?”

She drew in a quick, shallow breath, savoring the smell of him. Deodorant and essential oils and cinnamon, and underneath, bone and dandruff. The enticing musk of his other self.

“Well . . . Old Spice most of the time, but not tonight." said Oakley. "You’re wearing cologne tonight. You wore it last wednesday too, I think. It smells pretty good.” she replied evenly.

Doyle went red in the face.

“And you switched toothpastes recently, too.” she went on. “You were on a mint kick. Now you smell like cinnamon. Cinnamon and something, umm – have you been to a barbecue lately?”

He chuckled at her. “That would be the charcoal you’re smelling. I draw with it sometimes. It gets under the fingernails, you see.” 

"Yeah, well, can't get them all, now can I."

"Don't be so modest. You're incredibly talented, if you'll permit me to say so."

Oakley dismissed his praise with a curt shake of her head. "Aw, it's nothing impressive. I'll bet you ten to one some other wolf out there can do it better than me." she joked with a self-deprecating laugh.

"I doubt that. You're one of a kind."

Pierced abruptly by a flash of deep curiosity, Oakley said "Have you met many other wolves in your life, Ian?"

It was the first time she had called him by his real name all night, and it changed the tone between them drastically. 

Doyle gave her a conflicted look and said "Besides my mother, you're the first wolf I've ever properly known."

"Really?" Oakley said with astonishment. "I mean, I know you said there aren't many wolves left around here but there must have been others at  _some_  point. You must have seen at least one other wolf around London, back in the day."

"Never here in London." said Doyle.

"Jeez. That's crazy. I knew a bunch of wolves back when I was in the states." Oakley said. She let her mind float back, picking out the tiny memories. "When was the last time you saw a wolf?"

"The last time I saw another wolf was . . . Oh. I struggle to recall. Eighty-eight? No. Eighty-seven." Doyle said, leaning back in his chair with his head tipped. A fond glaze came over his eyes. "It wasn't here in London, though. I was in France, on holiday. By myself in Paris. I remember, I'd gone to the Louvre, and there was – I was in the section where they hang the Monets, and I saw a man. A wolf. Young wolf. Younger than you are now."

"What happened?"

"We locked eyes." Doyle said dreamily. "I stared at him and he stared right on back, and then . . . "

"And then?" Oakley asked eagerly.

Doyle's shoulders drooped. "I walked away."

"What? Seriously? You mean you didn't try to approach him or anything? Come on, you must have had at least  _one_  question for the guy."

"Oh I wanted to ask him all the questions in the world." Doyle said with a sunken smile.

"Then why didn't you?"

"For starters, I'm dreadful with French. Far better at Italian, if I'm honest." 

"I don't think that would have mattered, Ian." Oakley scoffed. 

"You're probably right, but I think, at the time, I was afraid." Doyle told her. His words were tinged with pained mirth. "I think I was afraid that, if I asked him a question about himself, then he would enviably wind up asking me a question about  _myself_. And then he would have found out that I was nothing more than this silly, inexperienced . . . tourist, I suppose. A tourist visiting the island of my own nature." 

"Poetic." Oakley remarked. 

"Thank you. I try."

"I know you do. And for the record, _I_ don't think you're a tourist. You're just a little under-educated is all."

"Yes, well. Don't worry, it isn't something I regret. Mother always said, never talk to strange wolves." Doyle explained, forcing a laugh. 

"What do you mean?"

Doyle's smile went away. He told Oakley about arriving with his mother from Glasgow at Euston and how she had sternly told him to "watch out for the predators". It seemed absurd now, the idea that he should be afraid of people. Even as a cub, it was the reversing of an order that had always struck him as odd, but one that his mother had insisted was the way of the world. So he had never seen fit to question it. From his mother he had learned not to press others for acceptance because it would never come, and not to approach people in general, and never to reveal himself for what he was because people – ordinary people – were callus and cruel and despised anyone who was truly different.

"Wow. As a kid you were pretty sheltered, huh." Oakley said.

" _Isolated_  would be a more appropriate term for it." said Doyle. His smile was warm but burdened, and Oakley realized that she had allowed the line of questioning to become too invasive. Too intimate.

In an effort to make amends and steer the conversation back to happier matters, she said "Well hey, you kind of concurred your fears in the end, right? I mean, you approached me just fine and it all worked out okay."

Doyle took a sip of his tea. "Yes, it did." he said softly.

_Okay, enough of the heavy shit_ , thought Oakley. 

"Here. I have an idea. Tell me what your favorite scent is." she proposed. "You know, your favorite thing to smell? Whatever gives you that warm fuzzy feeling inside." she added by way of an explanation.

Doyle grew curiously still. His eyes roamed from her face down to her chest. He swallowed thickly. 

"I really couldn't say." 

Oakley smiled. "How about I try to guess? Ummm – let's see. I want to say . . . dried paint? No. Steak, right? Or is it strawberries? Something sweet and tasty." 

"Erm, why don't you tell me yours." Doyle rasped, sounding weirdly flustered.

"Oh, mine's firewood. And I don't mean burning wood. Not wood that's on fire. Just firewood, you know? The kind you'd use in a wood stove."

Doyle ducked his head in an understanding nod.

"Did I tell you, we had a wood stove when I was a kid?" Oakley said. "It's true. Every spring my dad would put an order in for the wood and every fall they'd come by and dump it on the lawn. Big pile of dry logs. And my brothers and I would come out and form a kind of, like, human chain from the lawn into the house and bring the wood in. Hand each log down, sort of like a log-assembly-line." she told him. "We'd keep the wood in the cellar, and when winter came around we'd light it on up. Was great. You'd get the snow coming down out the window, and the smell of the smoke and the crackling sound and the dust and wood-chips on your fur and . . . and everything." 

"Sounds splendid."

"It was." she sighed, wondering why she had chosen to say  _fur_  rather than  _clothes_. "Really was."

Momentarily lost in the nostalgia of it, Oakley tried to bring to mind the smell of firewood, the smell of her home, if only for the sake of knowing that she could still remember what her home smelled like. All at once the past, like a wolf long drugged and sleeping, woke to run howling in manic loops around her head. Suddenly Oakley was clutched by a swift and terrible understanding. The best part of her life – the part that had been free and fun, the part before the separation of the wolf and her self – was behind her now. 

She blinked, shaken, and saw Doyle again. His sad expression startled her, until she realized he was only mirroring what he saw on her own face.

"Is something wrong?" Doyle asked her gently, voice floating warm and airy through Oakley's ears.

Feeling hot in the face, Oakley shook her head, stood and adjusted her skirt, signaling her desire to leave. "I'm full. How about you? Still working on it?"

"No, I believe I'm finished." said Doyle, dabbing his mouth with a fresh napkin and tossing it aside. "Shall we go then, you and I? When the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table?"

Oakley scrunched her nose at him. "Stick to drawing. You're better at it."

After dinner the pair left the restaurant together, as they had on the past two Wednesday nights – with Oakley, overcome by a strange and indescribable yearning, immediately to Doyle’s side, moving to take up his arm. Casual and comfortable as anything. And Doyle, peering at her with a quizzical look, trying to figure out just what was happen–

A small, kneeing noise escaped Doyle's mouth as Oakley’s fingers brushed against the underside of his forearm, and he stuck out reflexively like a cornered animal. Oakley let go of his arm and froze, staring at him. 

Doyle was suddenly, impressively impassive. He put a foot’s worth of distance between himself and Oakley and attempted a weak smile. 

“Sorry. You, ah . . . Cold fingers.” he said, sticking his hands under his armpits.

Oakley eyed him with muted suspicion. She tried to read his face but it had locked like a steel trap. He was repressing something powerful. She decided to be polite and not pursue it.

“Sorry. Bad circulation.” she replied, staying cool. Quietly she prepared a cigarette for herself and when it was lit she said “Anyways, thanks for another groovy dinner, scruff. Same time next week?”

She was relieved to see his smile brighten. 

“Of course. Have a good week, Gerry.” Doyle said as they parted.

“You too.” said Oakley. She made a small note of the undiminished affection in his voice, and walked slowly away.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**5.**

**AUGUST - Waxing Crescent**

“Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.” 

― [Franz Kafka](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5223.Franz_Kafka)

 

 

_[Monday, August 17th. Early Morning.]_

 

_[Gatwick Airport sits on the outskirts of London below a vacant sky. It is home to a collection of strange noises – the rumble of passenger karts, the metallic whine of x-ray machines, the squeak of trolley wheels, the scrape of luggage along the sleek tile floors. The most notable noise is the clamorous chatter of a hundred different languages. Among them is the voice of Geraldine Oakley. Flat and a little deep and distinctly American – it is the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down._

_Oakley and Margie Hart stand together by the luggage carousel at the North Terminal arrivals lobby. Together, they watch the same set of scuffed yellow suitcases spin around the carousel in an infinite loop. Shady – a fat, grizzled German Shepherd – sits panting beside them, the length of her leash trailing from Oakley’s limp hand.]_

 

“Amphetamines.” Oakley said without hesitation.

“Really?” said Hart, eying Oakley with subtle incredulity. “See, now, I would reckon it’s cocaine.”

Oakley shook her head sleepily. Under the florescent lights she looked abysmally sick. 

“Nobody brings coke on planes anymore, Marge.” she murmured half-heartedly.   
  
“They do.” insisted Hart, pacing aimlessly up the side of the carousel and back. She was roughly Oakley’s age, but far taller, and with a wider stride. Her unusually long legs were matched only by the length of her hair. Most days, she kept it tied back in a manageable braid.  
  
“Yeah, okay, they do.” Oakley confessed. “But it’s not the number one smuggle anymore. Everybody knows we’ll recognize it. Hell, even little kids can tell what cocaine looks like. So nobody even tries to bring it over any more.”

Hart nodded, checking her makeup in the glossy surface of a baggage-claim cart. Nearby, a small, multi-colored wave of people crowded around the escalator. Many of the travelers bore grim, tired expressions similar to Oakley's – the result of journeying from one time zone into another. Oakley watched them out of the corner of her eye. A few were dressed in thin jackets, long trousers, wool jumpers. Attire appropriate for the inevitable end of summer. She found their ruckus strangely deafening. 

“Amphetamines, on the other hand.” Oakley continued, trying to ignore the yammering crowd. “Some of them, they look like ordinary aspirin pills. Stick them in a vitamin bottle, there you go. Could get right through a custom search, no problem. Oh, what are these, ma’am? Nothing, sir, just some supplements I take.”  
  
Sniggering, Hart said “You know Eliana? Short Eliana, with the freckles?”  
  
“Works the night shift with Bander, right?”  
  
“That’s her. Once, she caught an Australian girl – tried to bring some coke in using sugar packets. Said she got them on the airplane. Said the stewardess – Said the stewardess –“ Hart tried, struggling not the laugh, “She said the stewardess gave them to her with the in-flight tea.”   
  
Hart let out a great, booming cackle.  
   
“Jeee-sus.” Oakley agreed.   
  
“Why do you suppose they do it, Gerry?” Hart asked, calming back down.  
  
Oakley shrugged. “Take coke on planes? Beats me. Not like they can’t get it on every street corner in London.”  
  
“No, I meant, why do you think they  _do_  the drugs? You know. Don't they know it ruins their skin. Ugh, and their teeth as well." 

"Suppose they're just bored with their lives or something."

"Blame it on the thrill-seeking personality, do you? . . . Oakley?  _Hello_?" 

Oakley was staring through the carousel into space. Hart snapped her fingers, and Oakley blinked. "Huh? Oh. Sorry."

"What's with you this week? You keep zoning out. Every couple of weeks, you zone out on me."

"Sorry." Oakley said again.

"Stop apologizing. You always apologize."

"Fuck you. That better?"

"Much better." Hart laughed. That brought Oakley's smile back. "So are you going to tell me what's wrong or what?" Hart questioned.

Oakley inhaled, sifting through the scents of a hundred weary travelers. She hadn't thought it possible to feel both claustrophobic  _and_  isolated in an airport. 

"Aw shit. Just that time of the month, I guess." she finally said. 

Hart nodded knowingly. "That why you came in late today?"

"I came in on time, actually." 

"Hamilton said you got here late." 

Oakley's face scrunched into an irritated snarl. 

"Well just because I didn't come in  _early_  like  _he_  does every god damn day. . . " she started, but gave up halfway through, too tired to try and dispute it. "Ah, never mind. If he says I was late, then I guess I was late." She tugged gently on Shady's leash. The fat German Shepherd roused with a half-hearted  _woof_ , and padded into position beside her. "Anyway, you up to do another sweep?" 

"We've only just done one, haven't we?"

"Yeah, but I figure if we do the next one now maybe we'll get out of here on time for once. Besides, I don't know about you but those suitcases are driving me nuts." Oakley said. She began to lead the fat German Shepherd across the lobby toward the escalators. 

Hart followed after, matching Oakley's pace with only half of the steps.  

"I almost forgot," she told Oakley, "Jack and I were thinking of having you and Charlie round next week. What day works best for you?"

"Friday works okay for the both of us."

Hart shook her head. "Damn. I can't on Friday. I've got an extra shift."

"Hamilton cornered you too, huh? Same here. Caught me after the monday-morning-meeting. Got me to agree to come in this Saturday and next. Whatever. Not like I have a life, right?"

"But weren't you just in  _last_  Saturday?"

"Doesn't matter. How about we get together Thursday?" 

"Jack's out of town on Thursday for a conference."

"Umm, tomorrow then?" 

"You mean Tuesday? Doesn't leave me much time to sort anything out. What happened to Wednesday?"

Oakley's mouth flattened. "Wednesday's no good either."

"Oh right. Charlie's got the night class, hasn't he."

"Just until January. Then the semester switches over."

"That's nice. He'll be home during Wednesday evenings then, will he?"

Oakley turned away, exhausted. "Talk to Jack about Tuesday. Charlie'll bring a side-dish. You know how much he loves to cook for you guys." 

With that, Oakley picked up the pace, herding Shady up the escalator two steps at a time. Hart had to struggle to keep up. 

 

* * *

 

Geraldine Oakley lead a comfortable life. She was young, healthy, and smart. She had a good home and decent prospects. She was well provided for by an intelligent, caring man. By no means did she think things were absolutely perfect, but her life in London – her relationship with Charles Weller – was certainly enjoyable, and she found that the various hardships she sometimes came across made things more exciting. 

Total stagnation, on the other hand, was insufferable.

At work on Tuesday, Oakley was again despondent. She found it difficult to move herself into better moods. She did the mandatory luggage searches with tepid enthusiasm, and while she hated not wanting to put more energy into her work (her father believed that hard work was the fundamental key to happiness), over the past few weeks a particularly negative mindset had come to grip her. 

Why bother doing more? 

Stumbling across contraband was rare, and she never received any accolades for trying to find it. If it weren’t for her sense of morality, she might have stopped looking altogether. As it was, she spent a large portion of Tuesday's shift ignoring her responsibilities in favor of daydreaming. 

Towards the end of the day, she took the monorail over to Terminal 27 for the singular purpose of studying her reflection in the vast windows there. At one point she convinced Hart to take Shady back down to Terminal 20, where the vending machines were, and get her a drink.

"Something with a lot of sugar." she requested.

When Hart was gone, Oakley dropped into a crouch in front of the windows and reviewed herself on all fours. She wondered just how fast she could run after six years of walking upright. Thoughts of her brothers filled her head. She remembered hunting with them, roaming across the vast fields outside the family house, foraging for rabbits and voles. Wearing her brother Andy's old belt around her neck – tricking people into mistaking her for a semi-feral dog.

Sometimes she and her brothers stalked the fields at night, and when she would stray from the path to pursue some flighty snake or pigeon, she would hear her pack-mates around her, her family breathing and snuffling along in the dark. And when the moon was full, she would gather on the front porch with her brothers and her parents, and sing. 

Standing back up, Oakley pictured herself in her natural shape, chasing after a deer and dragging it down with her trim, wiry arms. In her security uniform she looked lean and strong. In her pelt, she looked fierce. 

Just then Hart came back with a handful of snacks and a single can of soda for Oakley.  

Oakley took the can from Hart and on a random whim she said "Marge, I got a question for you. If you could trade the rest of your life for a single yesterday, would you do it?" 

"What kind of daft question is that." said Hart, tearing nosily into a bag of crisps. "We can't get yesterday back so what's the point of wishing for it?"

"Yeah, but, hypothetically speaking." said Oakley. "If time worked that way – If you could make a deal like that, would you do it?"

Hart thought about it.

"Well it  _would_  be nice to look younger again." she finally said.

"Think you'd make the same choices the second time around?"

"Who knows. Probably not." Hart shrugged, stuffing a handful of crisps into her mouth.

Shady, who had been eying the little foil bag in Hart's hand with visible hunger, began to whine and tug against the leash, trying to entice Hart to share a crisp with her.

"Stop that. You're not getting a snack." Oakley growled. 

The dog went silent and hung its head.

"How do you  _do_  that?" Hart said, looking thoroughly impressed.

"I exude an air of dominance. Dogs pick up on it." Oakley explained.

"You learn that from the training?"

Oakley never answered. She was busy staring at her reflection again. She was searching for the wolf inside herself. She used to think it was terrific how well she could conceal her give-aways from the boring animals. Now, she wondered if keeping the wolf hidden had caused it to deteriorate past the point of prominence.

When she and Hart were finished with their respective snacks, they binned their rubbish and made their way back to the arrivals hall. On the way, Hart fished a chocolate bar out of her pocket and said "Here. Got this for you too. It should help."

Oakley took the chocolate bar from Hart, raised it to her nose, and sniffed. Foil and cocoa and peanut brittle. She wanted to say _, No, this won't help, Marge. Trust me. I get like this. The moon gets full. Small pressures become magnified. I go crazy. Then the moon wanes and I reset and everything's okay again._ But she chose to say "Thanks, appreciate it," instead.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the day, Oakley took her time coming home. She rode the Gatwick Express non-stop train service to Victoria Station twice around before finally getting off. From there she walked at a leisurely pace back to Mayfair. On her way, she stopped at a corner shop and grabbed a few necessary items. A pack of condoms for after dinner, a box of tampons for later on in the week.

As she carried on towards home, she more than once found herself staring up at the moon with a certain amount of longing. Now nearly full, it loomed ominously above the dark and dingy roofs of the tall city buildings. A diamond balanced on a jagged sea of dust. 

_Perfect night for a nice, long howl,_ thought Oakley as she walked.

For the most part, she tried to approach the world with a healthy level of entitlement. She never asked for more than what she thought she had earned, but it had been a long time since she had pined for her pelt. She suspected it was the fault of Ian Doyle. The introduction of another wolf into her weekly routine had roused in her a secret want to return to the simplistic ways of pack-life, and now all she could think about was reverting back to her primal state and running around in her pelt. 

The mutation of her life into something bland had been so gradual that she had failed to noticed it happening. As she thought about it she realized that she was comfortable, yes, but also trapped by her comfort. With the acceptation of meeting Doyle, nothing new ever happened to her. Everything always stayed the same. 

_No, that's just the moon talking_ , Oakley told herself bleakly. The thought did little to reassure her. 

Eventually she wound up asking herself why she felt it necessary to hide the wolf in her  _all_  of the time. The wolf in her had done nothing wrong, except perhaps by existing. As far as she was concerned, it demeaned her to try, by posturing, to deny the wolf the freedom she felt it deserved.

At the same time, however, she knew it would be impossible to let the wolf out while she was there in the city. Even if she slipped a belt around her neck and went out one night to stalk the alleyways as a 'dog' while Weller slept, there were still too many variables to try and take into account. Dog catchers, unpredictable drunkards, poorly driven cabs. CCTV cameras. Oakley wanted a simple release from the stale routines of her job and love-life. She wanted to be a wolf again in the quiet of the Wyoming fields. Not on the noisy streets of London. Recognizing the sensation made her feel guilty, for she read it as proof that she was an unsatisfactory worker and an unsatisfied lover. She hated living as a constant human, and she hated herself for hating it.  

When Oakley got home she considered asking Weller if she could re-arrange some of the furniture in the flat. She wanted so badly for something to change, but the energy to make that change happen deserted her completely as soon as she tried to call on it. 

She wound up lounging in front of the television for the rest of the evening instead. Flipping through the channels until she found something halfway tolerable to watch. She settled for a nature program about coyotes. 

For a long time Oakley stayed on the couch, staring doughy-eyed at her howling cousins until the desolate clarity that had dogged her on the walk home began to sink pleasantly away, back into the murky depths of her moon-addled brain. Soon she forgot all about the sadder, staler aspects of her existence, about the pelt beneath her skin that itched to be released – and when she finally went to bed it was not to sleep, but to lunge at Weller with all the desperate, pent-up passion of the truly morose. 

 

* * *

 

_[Wednesday._ _August 19th. Evening.]_

 

_[Outside Lee Ho Fooks, small poplars line the curb, and the wet sidewalks dry in splotches. The rain has only just let up._   _Inside, Ian Doyle is dressed in a black cotton shirt with a low-cut collar. He looks strangely youthful – dashing, even – with his clavicle partially exposed. Oakley, with her hair slightly disheveled and the dark shadows beneath her eyes, looks battle-worn and utterly fatigued. The pair of them exchange the typical social niceties as they sit, pause when the waiter stops by their table, resume once the waiter leaves. Oakley is not as talkative as she was on their previous session. Eventually the tea comes, and the pair settles in.]_

 

On Wednesday evening Oakley met Doyle for their fourth dinner in a row together. She did little to hide her melancholy from him. She was well past the point of caring about the impression she made. Doyle was quick to pick up on it. 

"You look awful," he told her, as politely as he could. 

Oakley glanced at herself in the window. Her eyes were sunken and dark, and her skin looked like mayonnaise. 

"Either you're hungover, or you've not slept well in days." Doyle surmised.

"Little rude to comment on somebody's personal appearance, isn't it?" Oakley said, more tersely than she meant to. 

Doyle looked smug as he leaned back in her chair, posture purposefully accentuating his pale neck and adam's apple.

"I'm an art dealer. With nice clothes, according to you. I'm allowed to make observations. It's only fair." he replied. She stared at him and his smile fell. "Really, Gerry. Is everything okay with you? You're not yourself tonight."

"I'm never myself." she muttered.

"Sorry?"

Oakley was practiced at letting the world see what they wanted to see. She tried to make herself sound more energetic – "I said I'm fine," – but with Doyle, she discovered it was difficult, keeping up the pretense of enjoying herself. In the end, she settled for sounding only moderately glum. "Just fine."

"Are you  _sure_? If I didn't know better I'd say something was bothering you.”

Oakley kept her smile on. She felt so very distant from herself, but how was she expected to translate that into words Doyle would understand?

“Nope. I'm fine. Honest." said Oakley. She proceeded to move the conversation onto a more cheerful topic. "So how long before they cancel The Simpsons, do you think?"

"Oh, years yet, I imagine. A dead horse is far easier to beat, you know." Doyle said with a smirk.

Oakley laughed, and for a handful of minutes she was happy again.

After dinner she and Doyle walked along the empty London streets, close but not too close to one another, Oakley smoking her cigarette, Doyle watching her take each drag with concern in his eyes and something else there, too. Something Oakley couldn't quite identify. 

Overall, Oakley was pleased with Doyle's company, and found he filled a particular, unnameable void in her. But just then, even the comfort of his presence did little to squash her malaise. Pausing by the curb, she occupied the ring of light below a tall lamp and craned her face up to the cloudy sky. She was searching for the moon, and even though she could not see it, she knew already that it was a waxing gibbous – and that next week, it would be a full moon. Beautiful, revitalizing.

Suddenly, Oakley felt hollow inside. She hated how something as simple as a bit of moonlight (or lack-thereof) could have such a strong effect on her. She bared her teeth in an irritated sneer, and turned quickly away from the sky, fumbling for a fresh cigarette. She lit it, stuck it between her lips, and stepped hard on her anger so that she could concentrate. She felt the smoke go into her lungs, and then control, solid beneath her, like a good gravel bottom in a fast current.

A second later and Doyle's hand broke the ring of lamplight to hover near her shoulder, lost in the limbo of wanting to touch her and being blatantly afraid to. Ever since the cemetery, he would not touch her. Oakley hated it. She moved towards him and he shrank back, blue eyes wide with worry.

A beat. He got to the point. “Something’s bothering you. You've been bothered all evening." 

It wasn't an accusation, but she took it like one.

Bristling – “What, does my being unhappy bug you or something? Is that it?" Feeling suddenly bitter, she considered adding _Because it's your fault. If it weren't for you, I'd still be blind and blissfully god damned ignorant._ But she left it when she saw his face fall.

"No,” he said softly. “It doesn't bug me."

Ashamed, Oakley puffed a small ring of smoke into the cool air and said “Sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I'm ruining tonight, aren't I?"

He gave her a lenient smile. "No, you're not. There's no need to apologize. You haven't ruined anything."

"You sure? Some folks'd think otherwise.” Oakley said with a wry grin. “Lot of people get sick of me fast when they find out I get like this. Charlie used to hate it but now he just ignores me."

Doyle’s face hardened. “I don't hate you, Gerry, I could never hate you. I could never ignore you, either. I'm happy so long as I get to spend time with you. It doesn't matter about your mood. I would have you any way, weeping or otherw-"

The last word died on his tongue as the phrasing hit him. With his cheeks turning a dark, beet-red, Doyle cleared his throat.

"That is to say, I don't mind it if you're down. You're perfectly welcome to be down whenever you want, I don't mind it."

"Well all right. Good to know."

He took several small, measured steps toward her. “But I have to ask, though. Is it me? Have I upset you?"

She saw the alarm in his face – saw the visage of the huddled, wounded, lonely animal, and again felt the pang of compassion. It wasn't Doyle's fault that she'd buried the wolf in her under the tedium of human comfort. She had no one to blame but herself.

"No . . ." Oakley sighed. "It's not you."

Relieved – "Is it anything I can help with?"

Oakley felt a strand of oily affection coil through her for Doyle. She was touched by the idea that a man whom she had known little more than a month could show concern for her well-being even after she had accused him of romance and then rejected him.

"Not really anything you can do." she told him frankly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

If Oakley’s tail had been out it would have drooped. She loathed the idea of admitting it, but she did so anyway. “Aw it's just my cycle, that's all. I get like this when the moon starts going full again. That’s an explanation, by the way. Not an excuse."

"I understand." 

He edged closer. 

"If you need anything, I would be happy to provide it." Doyle looked in no way overly eager to prostrate himself in front of her to win points. He spoke out of genuine concern, and she appreciated it. "I'd like to be helpful, if I can." he told her. 

A rather intense and pleasing image of the blue-eyed wolf from her dreams bloomed abruptly in her head. Oakley stifled an inconvenient squeak of shock by jamming the cigarette back into her mouth. Doyle waited as she drew a shaky breath and sent a stream of smoke from each nostril like a dragon.

“It'll go away afterward. I'll get over it, once the moon wanes." Oakley explained numbly, stepping out of the ring of lamplight. She blinked hard enough to see little white spots, and wondered if Weller had gotten home yet. How many condoms were left in the box again? "It'll go away. It always does. Just something us bitches gotta suffer through. You know?"

Doyle smiled crookedly. "Mmm. My mother got quite blue sometimes. I suppose I know why now." 

They started walking again. Doyle's gaze remained heavy on her, flicking between her eyes and the cigarette dangling between her lips

Eventually Oakley tossed her cigarette away and said "Yeah, well, I think I'm going to call it a night, scruff."

"All right." Doyle said, frowning. She started to cross the street. "See you next Wednesday?" he called out after her.

"Like always." Oakley called back.

"Be safe, Gerry."

"I will."

"And sleep well."

"Sleep is for the weak, my friend."

Another lie. Oakley hated the moon, and she hated having to lie to her friend – but she also hated the idea of looking foolish in front of him. She walked away quickly, robbing Doyle of the chance to comment further.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

**AUGUST - Full Moon**

 

"How do we begin to covet? We begin by coveting what we see every day.”

― [Thomas Harris](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/12455.Thomas_Harris), [ _The Silence of the Lambs_](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/22533)

 

 

_[Wednesday, August 26th. Day.]_

_[Westmoors Gallery operates as more of an art shop than an actual gallery. The small storefront is situated on the edge of Dean Street and Old Compton Street, between the quaint little boutiques and upmarket restaurants that line the road. Just one part of a small oases of contemporary art and entertainment in Soho._

_The inside of the gallery is shoebox-shaped and colored creamy white, with a jutting partial-wall dissecting the first floor into halves. The resulting, narrow faux-halls are filled with commissioned fine art and photography pieces, many created by local artists both established and new. Below each featured piece are at least two chrome wall luminaries, positioned specifically for spot lighting._

_At the front of the store, tucked into the right corner by the door, is a large, rectangular reception desk, contemporary in it's sleek design and complete with a leather-back chair, a telephone, a thin potted plant and a small cash-register (cleverly hidden behind an extruded screen cover). The desk blocks off a simplified staircase and the flat above._

_At the back of the gallery, a single locked door leads to the unisex bathroom, and the adjacent main office._

_Inside the main office, Ian Doyle sits on the floor, surrounded by a half dozen high-quality wooden framing samples. Each has a different color and finish. Doyle sorts placidly through them, looking for the perfect shell for the German's newest, most opulent piece – a vibrant, surrealist painting of a great, green tiger._ _Doyle's appreciation for the effects of a good frame does not extend into his personal life. Doyle hangs his own work using thumbtacks. In contrast, the German doesn’t see the framing business from a technical standpoint—he views it as an important extension of his creative work. Doyle has decided to indluge him.]_

 

 

Ian Doyle had acquired the Westmoors Gallery in 1985, back when he was still working as a graphic designer at an advertising agency in Soho. At the time, the surrounding area was undergoing considerable gentrification, quickly blossoming into a fashionable district of theaters and media offices. Doyle had stumbled across the gallery (then just a room for rent above an empty shop) on accident one day while searching for a new place to live. 

He later went on to inquire about the downstairs property, and, after learning that it was also available at a reasonable renting price, saved up some money, purchased it, and began making plans to renovate. Thankfully for him, the location was a prime one – convenient in that it was near other retail establishments where people who liked art tended to congregate. Before long business flourished, and twenty years later, Doyle was the proud owner and proprietor of a small, relatively well-known piece of tangible independence. Proof that he was an intelligent entrepreneur who could survive on his own, doing what he liked.

Doyle took his position as a gallery owner seriously enough. He subscribed to a variety of trade publications, saw museum shows whenever he could, read whatever new books and exhibit catalogs came out. He dedicated to keep himself up-to-form on all things art-related. He was well connected, and did his best to socialize with collectors.

In the same way Oakley could smell disease from across a room, Doyle could easily spot the difference between good quality, authentic pieces of art, and anything that might have been considered fake, a scam, or just plain third-rate. He knew how to price art within the context of its market, and could explain his prices to anyone who asked without unnerving them. 

Because Doyle did not employee any kind of secondary staff (the gallery was so small it did not require one), he saw to many of the goings on by himself. Doyle's days broke down into a regular, set schedule. From the time the gallery opened in the mornings until lunch at noon, Doyle spent his time creating and maintaining the gallery's handful of exhibitions. This involved a mixture of cleaning, organizing, and – if he had new works to hang – choosing the most insightful and engaging ways to arrange them.

Every now and then a customer would come in. Some bored pedestrian or a curious student. Doyle knew how to differentiate between the real customers and the plethora of energy-draining time-wasters. These he could see coming a mile away, and got rid of them easily and without much guilt. But when a legitimate shopper entered the gallery, Doyle would stop whatever he was doing, put on his imaginary salesman mask, and interact with them. Interaction wasn't Doyle's typical strong suit, but when he was wearing his salesman mask, he came across as far smoother and much more eloquent than he did while out in the open. 

Doyle was comfortable around people who bought art. He knew how to speak to potential buyers about art in a language that they could identify with. Sometimes he fancied himself an interpreter – capable of taking the various complexities of the words he sold and conveying them as cognitive concepts. Describing the raw emotion and sensitive subject matter in palatable, appealing ways. And he always made sure to present the items hanging on his walls in their best light. He enjoyed talking about art, could discuss it freely with nearly anybody (relying on the confidence that he knew his topic well enough to coast in his speech) – and he enjoyed convincing people to spend their money on artistic things. He was excellent at sensing when someone was on the verge of purchase, and he was an expert at knowing exactly what to say to turn the deal. And while not every conversation resulted in a sale, at the very least Doyle could take solace in the idea that the people he spoke with went away more knowledgeable than they had been on the topic of art. 

Whenever a piece  _did_  sell, though, Doyle would mark it down in a small, black notebook that he kept in his desk drawer. Doyle's asking rates were fair, and his commission take-away was a third of the price of every piece he sold. He set most of what he earned aside, compelled to save up for the wife and family that he knew, deep down, would never come.

At the end of the week, he would contact the artists whose work had sold and inform them of their success. Sometimes he would call past clients to ask them if they wanted to contribute anything new to his gallery – although this depended entirely on whether or not Doyle had the room on his walls to incorporate new works. 

When new pieces did arrive, it was Doyle's responsibility to plan the marketing of the selected items to potential clients via various, low-key advertising efforts. This usually involved taking photographs of whatever new pieces came in, and uploading the pictures onto the gallery's main website – keeping in mind to always provide the price, and credit the artist by name.

Doyle was also responsible for organizing gallery events. Once or twice each season, Doyle met with some of the artists he knew and planned a tour or a workshop. Tours and workshops attracted business-folk and other, affluent lovers of art. People who were more likely to invest in supporting the community arts and crafts than Doyle's day-to-day customers. 

However, unlike some of the bigger, privately-owned galleries in London, Doyle seldom had show openings. He would hold the occasional unveiling, if an artist specifically requested it (and if he liked their work enough to put in the extra effort), but the unveilings never consisted of a crowd larger than the artist's immediate friends and family. And Doyle never went all-out to entertain them. He provided wines just fine enough not to be considered cheap, and a sampling of Picinisco cheeses (which he imported direct from Italy), but beyond that, Doyle believed in keeping things simple.

Coupled with the artistic side of things, were the normal office duties. Administrative paperwork and financial accounting. Record keeping. Bill paying and budgeting. Doyle saw to the shipping arrangements on Tuesdays, logged the acquisitions and sales on Thursdays, and balanced the accounting books on Fridays for good measure.

Like any business owner, he worked to keep costs in line while striving to operate as efficiently as possible. Most of the time he made a decent profit, and was happy with the job and it's many subsequent duties. 

Presently he occupied the tiny, back office, trying to decide which frame he liked best. Doyle offered framing services to those that asked for them, and while Doyle did not frame his own artwork, he understood that framing was a practical contribution to an art form, and that design fundamentals came first for different people. The German was one of those people. 

When the green tiger had been adequately framed, Doyle exited the back office and moved to the front of the gallery. The paintings that hung in the front window – the ones that faced the street and the passersby – were those that Doyle tried to sell quickly. Sometimes, they were the paintings of the artists he liked and respected. Sometimes, they were the paintings he considered eyesores, the ones he wanted to remove from his gallery as hastily as possible. The green tiger was one of the latter. Doyle thought it looked gaudy, and besides the fact, he had never been a fan of anything post-modern. 

As Doyle hung the ugly painting, he thought to himself  _It ought to be something pretty going here. Something nice, something that draws people in._

An image of Oakley's face rendered in the monochrome of cheap paper and charcoal flashed into Doyle's mind. He paused in front of the tiger and thought of the night before, replaying the scene in his head. He grimaced, feeling mortified. He sincerely hoped that Oakley hadn't misconstrued his refusal to let her touch him in some negative way. Standing back from the tiger, Doyle began rubbing his shoulder involuntarily. The skin still tingled from where she had touched him.

Randomly he wondered if Oakley was listed in the phone book. 

_I could look her up. Call her, apologize for my behavior. Explain that I wasn't trying to be rude. That I was only trying to be a gentleman._

Doyle shook his head. Looking her up would be a grievous invasion of her privacy. She would give him her number when she was ready. Everything was fine. Doyle finished with the tiger and proceeded to busy himself around his gallery, cleaning and dusting what he could as a way of self-distraction, until the German finally arrived.

Spencer Hitsch came from Vienna – the second son of a German set designer and a relatively famous Austrian actress. As a young man, Hitsch had studied art at the prestigious Universität der Künste in Berlin, and moved to England in his mid thirties to perfect his craft. At a glance, he looked like the stereotypical European artist. Stout and square-headed, with a badly groomed goatee, a jovial disposition and the habit of dressing in obnoxiously bright, expensive clothing.

Hitsch swept in through the door of Doyle's gallery carrying a large portfolio under one arm, and a cane draped over the other. 

He approached Doyle with a genial grin. "Ah! You've put my painting up!" Hitsch spoke English incredibly well, and made a meal out of every word he said. "It looks fantastic in the front, I think."

Doyle smiled back in spite of himself. He moved to stand behind the receptionist desk, and unconsciously started doodling on a spare strip of receipt paper. The beginnings of a wholesome and pretty face – a face which became undeniably prettier the more he added to it. 

"And I quite like the frame, too." Hitsch added, walking up to lean comfortably against the front of the desk.

"I thought you might." Doyle replied. 

"When do you think it will sell?" 

Doyle saw the greedy little sheen in the other man's eyes, and glowered. "Patience is a virtue, Spencer. It will sell when it sells."

"I have another here for you, if you're interested." said Hitsch, hoisting the portfolio onto the desktop and patting it proudly.

"Of course you do." Doyle muttered, straitening. "I've already told you, Spencer, I haven't the  _room_  to hang another one of your paintings."

Hitsch peeled back the flap on the portfolio and reached inside. "At least let me show it to you. This one, you will like. It is very good!"

With that, Hitsch pulled from the belly of the portfolio a large slab of canvas. The painting, done in oil, featured a charming wood-cabin with a short brick chimney, squatting in the center of a dense thicket. Just beyond it, seen through a shallow opening in the trees, was a lakeside with a golden shimmer of sunlight rippling pleasantly over the water. 

Doyle's mouth fell open. "My god, that's exquisite. It's nothing like the tiger. How–"

"Ambidextrous!" Hitsch declared proudly. "One hand paints what I want, the other paints what I see." He wiggled his fingers in front of Doyle's nose for illustration.

Doyle ducked around him to get a better look at the painting. "Is it a real location or–"

"Yah. A real place. I have a little cabin up north. A private studio. I go there sometimes when I want to change hands. In fact, it is, I believe, right in your neck of the woods. Do you know Highland Perthshire?"

"Aye, I do. Lovely place, that." Doyle said, scanning the painting. "If it's all the same to you, I'd much rather hang  _that_  one up in the window. Shall we swap the tiger out for it?"

"Of course not! You may hang them both. One right next to the other." 

Doyle let his smile fall. "It's either the tiger or the landscape, I'm afraid."

"Ah, but did you not just say this one was good?"

Doyle's scowl re-emerged. "Yes, it is good, but that doesn't mean I intend to sacrifice someone else's space for it." 

Hitsch considered him. 

"Perhaps a deal can be arranged?" Hitsch said, leaning over the counter to sneak a peak at Doyle's sketch. "I know. How would you like to see my cabin? I'll let you stay there. I'll give you a whole weekend. No. Better. A whole  _month's_  worth of weekends, if you let me hang just a few more paintings. The cabin – it is very lovely there. Secluded. Quiet. You will love it. It is the perfect place for painting and–"

"Sorry, one space per customer." Doyle informed him primly. "It's up to you, though, which of your paintings I hang. If you want me to remove the tiger, I will."

Hitsch drooped in front of him. "No. You can leave it. It's the better of the two. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, well, I suppose I  _have_  already gone to the trouble of hanging it." Doyle agreed flatly.

Hitsch nodded, turning to stare longingly at the window. In the ensuing silence Doyle allowed his attentions to return momentarily to his drawing. He worked on refining Oakley's lips with lazy little flicks of his pen until they were lush and full. Then he sighed, wishing he'd been born a cigarette.

"What is that?" Hitsch said, breaking Doyle's reverie.

Doyle realized Hitsch was staring at the little piece of receipt paper. Quickly, he scrambled to put his hands over the face he'd been drawing. "Oh. This? Nothing. Boredom." he stammered.

"If it is nothing then why try and hide it? Were you going to draw her naked?" Hitsch asked, blocky-face flattening into a sly, irksome grin.

Doyle tensed. 

"What kind of question is that?" 

"Temperamental, are we? I was only joking." Hitsch said with a throaty chuckle.

"Spencer, you're on the verge of spoiling my mood." 

Hitsch ignored him. "Come on. Who is she? You've made her very pretty."

Doyle felt a claw threaten to grow. He curled his fingers under his palm so that they were out of sight.

"She's no one. A friend. That's all. It's a terrible likeness anyway." he grumbled, crumpling up the drawing and tossing it into the bin by his foot.

Hitsch frowned. "Ah, now why did you do that? It was coming along nicely, I thought."

"You can appeal to my vanity all you like, Spencer, but you're not getting another spot on my wall." Doyle snapped.

Hitsch laughed at him. "Always so grouchy. You need a wife, my friend. That is what  _you_  need."

"I don't  _need_  anything." Doyle replied, cool and clipped – but he could not stop himself from picturing Gerladine Oakley in a wedding gown. 

_Stop that! Fantasies are for school-boys with crushes. Grow up._

Doyle stuck out his chest and fixed Hitsch with a rigid glare.

"I will telephone you when your ridiculous tiger sells."he told Hitsch coldly. "Now, if you'll excuse me,I have a gallery to run."

With that, Doyle rounded the desk, moved to the back of the gallery, and busied himself with the paintings hanging there – pretending to nudge the corners of the frames that were already level until Hitsch eventually left. 

Once Hitsch was gone, Doyle returned to the desk to retrieve his drawing. He had to pick through a layer of wadded-up tissues to find it, and once he had it back he spent the rest of the day trying to smooth the wrinkled paper back out again by flattening it between his hands. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_[Wednesday, August 26th. Evening.]_

_[The August heat lies heavy on London, with humidity so thick there is moisture on nearly every window – including the front pane of Lee Ho Fooks. Inside, Ian Doyle sits at his usual table, quietly sipping his tea. Tonight he is wearing a corn-yellow jumper and a tie the same shade of blue as his eyes. The colors contrast the bristly overgrowth of his greying facial hair and his lean disposition.]_

 

Doyle wondered why he disliked the business of waiting for Oakley. In waiting there was expectancy. A margin of hope and the promise of contact with one of the few people he could stand. However, an excess of time without Oakley gave rise to the looming dread that she would leave him waiting indefinitely. 

 

At a small table at the back of the restaurant, Doyle teetered in the limbo of excitement and fear until he smelled Oakley's entrance. With her scent came calmness, and then, focus. Feeling refreshed, Doyle straitened in his seat, shut his eyes, and sniffed the air. He was surprised to detect some new scent below her natural aroma. Not soap or perfume. Something tangy and metallic. Doyle's eyes popped open. He smelled the blood on Oakley before she arrived at the table. Some feral part of him whispered  _She'll be fertile soon, she'll be ripe._  He coughed hard to drown out the thought.

"Nice clothes, for an art dealer." Oakley mumbled as she plopped into place in front of him. 

Doyle took in the sight of her, and frowned. She was dressed in a grey, wrinkled t-shirt and what must have been her work trousers. She looked even more frazzled and on edge than she had on their previous meeting. 

Unsure of how to broach the subject, Doyle carefully asked her how she was feeling. 

Oakley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you? My shrink?” she said sharply.

Doyle made sure to use a neutral tone when he answered her. “No, but the truth is I’ve grown rather fond of you, and I find myself worrying about your well-being now and again. As friends often do.”

Oakley dragged her purse onto her lap and took a pill bottle out of the front pocket. She proceeded to shake a small pile of painkillers into her hand, and then stuff them into her mouth. “You don’t need to worry about me, scruff." she said, chewing the pills as if they were sunflower seeds. "I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.” 

A sarcastic retort was on the tip of Doyle's tongue, but it vanished when he saw her glaring at him with the slitted eyes of her other self. “Erm, if you don't feel well, we can cancel for tonight.” he offered, suddenly sheepish.

Oakley's face crumpled slightly. 

“No, I'd rather be here." she said, looking both apologetic and frustrated. "It’s just . . . It's been a long week, is all. I had to skip lunch today. I'll be better once I'm fed."

Doyle knew she was telling the truth. He recognized the flash of starving animal, harried and worn-out under her gaunt face.

He spoke soothingly. “Would you like to rant a little? You're welcome to. I'd like to hear about it."

Oakley adjusted herself in the chair so that she wasn’t slouching. 

"They've been on my ass at work lately. They want me to start showing up earlier. Plus, my supervisor has me juggling shifts like a circus act. Anderson keeps calling out because his kid's got the flu. And today – today some idiot decided to try and smuggle a carton of fireworks past customs in his  _underpants_. ” she replied. "And I'm not talking about some little snap-crack cherry bombs here, either. I'm talking about the big stuff. Like, the crater-making fireworks. The kind the government sets off to celebrate a god damned Holiday. And of course he tries to deny it. I mean, I'm just standing there like, sir, clearly –  _clearly_  – you’re not just happy to see me. Clearly, you've got a literal rocket in your pocket. Like, your whole body smells like gunpowder, man. Quit trying to deny it."

Oakley stopped to groan.

"You have  _no_  idea how much paperwork I had to fill out. My wrist is killing me." she finished, shaking out her cramped fingers.

Doyle gave her a sympathetic smile. 

"What about you?" Oakley continued. "How's your week been, scruff?"

"Tiresome. I was short with a client this afternoon. The man got on my nerves, my patience left me.” Doyle explained.

“Oh yeah?" Oakley said. She dipped her teaspoon into her mug with waning enthusiasm. "You usually go off on clients when you're at work?”  
  
“No. Well, sometimes. I suppose it happens more often when the moon gets full, really.”  
  
Oakley’s lips quirked into a fascinated little smile. “Is that right? And, uh, is that how it always is for you?”

“Nowadays, yes. When I was young it was different. I used to get, um, well it was like an excess of energy instead. Like, mental caffeine. I’d have so much energy right before the full moon that I’d be bouncing off the walls. It drove my mother mad. All I ever wanted to do was run around. Be physical. Joke and laugh. Now all I want to do is –”

“Bite someone’s head off?”

“In the figurative sense, yes.”

She nodded. “It pass by quick?”

“Quick, but never quick enough.”

“That's for sure.” Oakley sighed.

“I guess that’s what happens when you get older.” 

Doyle began telling her about the details of his day. Oakley made meaningless noises of agreement as he bantered. Doyle couldn’t tell if she was distracted, or just disinterested. 

"I’ve been considering re-arranging the gallery, too." Doyle went on, opting for a subject change. "Maybe hanging things in different spots.” 

To his surprise, Oakley perked up. “You want to change something?”

"That’s right. I'm considering moving what's on the North wall over to the South wall. I want to redecorate a little." 

"Oh." She pleated her lips. "But you won’t change anything if you do it like that. You’ll just be switching stuff around."

"True, but my customers won’t know the difference. They’ll peer in through the window like usual and think I’ve got new stock in, so they’ll come inside. That’s what it’s all about. Getting them to come inside." 

"Sounds like going fishing. You lure them in, then attack them with your sales pitch." 

"Precisely."

"Uh huh." Oakley said with numb indifference. She turned to stare blankly through the windowpane, reflection faint and almost ethereal in the glass. Outside, the wind was picking up, and raindrops sprinkling the pavement. 

In the silence Doyle studied Oakley's dark, matted hair and the deep bags under her eyes. He wished he knew more about females – about how to alleviate them of their moon-related afflictions. He was good company and a decent conversationalist, but overall, he felt like he was providing Oakley with the bare minimum. 

_Maybe she'd be willing to go to the cinema with me after dinner. Take her mind off of things that way. . ._

He was about to suggest it when a raucous crash split the smothering silence and wrenched him from his thoughts. He turned in time to see a waiter hastily scooping up the remnants of a shattered plate. Turning back to Oakley, he tried to find a witty remark about clumsiness, but his mind was dismally empty of anything approaching humor. Oakley didn't seem to care. Her focus remained fixed on the window. At one point the dim headlights of a passing car sparkled in her hooded eyes,and Doyle again saw them gleam that familiar, fiery yellow. The hint of the wolf gave her otherwise slack face a keenness that he couldn't help but find remarkably beautiful.

"I missed you this week." Doyle said softly, before he could stop himself.

Oakley's yellow eyes flashed and her attention was once again on him. "Why? I'm not exactly miss Suzy Sunshine right now."

"You know that doesn't matter to me."

Oakley rested her chin on her hands and blew a strand of hair away from her forehead. Her face held a sour, listless expression that made Doyle's heart ache. 

“Will you tell me something?" she asked Doyle. "When’s the last time you let your pelt out? Out of curiosity."

Doyle took a moment to gather his thoughts. "I have this, well it’s sort of a tradition really. Every Halloween, at five before midnight, I, umm, I lock myself in my bathroom. Draw the blinds, all that. And I, uh, you know. Just until midnight.”

“You mean you change at least once a year?”

“If I can. Sometimes I’m busy.”

“Damn. You're a lucky bastard, you know that?”

“Why?”

“ _Why?_  You can change whenever you want to, that's why. You live alone, you’ve got privacy. I can’t change at all – I’m always with somebody. Charlie, a co-worker, a neighbor. There’s always somebody around. It drives me nuts.”

“I believe you.”

“Yeah, well . . . Do you enjoy it? Changing on Halloween?”

“I’m not sure, really. I think I only do it because I did it when I was a boy. I’d wait until my mother went to bed and sneak into the bathroom. It was thrilling for me, to know I was deliberately disobeying her.”

“Didn’t she let you take your pelt out?”

“Not exactly. I was never allowed to take it out when we first came to the city."

"Seriously?"

Doyle let his shoulders drop. "My mother always told me that it was for my own good."

"Oh. You mean for safety's sake."

He shook his head. "No, this was different. Hiding it was another issue – I understood why I had to hide it. With this . . . I think she was trying to assign a certain amount of shame to the idea of wearing my pelt."

Oakley brought her fist down on the table, hard. "There's nothing to be ashamed of." 

Doyle stiffened and felt the brief, self-conscious pang that came whenever he decided to share something deeply personal about himself. He ignored it and kept going.

"Eventually, when I got accustomed to the city, I started changing on my own. But never in the daylight, you understand. Then, one night, close to my sixteenth birthday, my mother sat me down on my bed and told me – I know you let your pelt out sometimes, in your room, when you’re in the loo, when you’re alone. When you think I’m not looking. I hope you understand it won't go away if you do that. I’m not going to tell you to stop, I can't control you, but just make sure that no one sees you. And I don’t mean publicly. You know not to let your pelt out it in public. You’re smart about that. But never,  _ever_  bring someone into this house and show them. If you do, you’ll chase them away. They’ll hate you if you show them, and they'll bring other people who hate us here. We'll be driven away.”

He paused, hoping she read the vulnerability in his face as something less pathetic. “I didn’t want to be driven away, you see.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” 

A long beat. Doyle sipped his tea, waiting for Oakley to speak again. 

“So, did your mom ever let you dress up as a wolf on Halloween? For shits and giggles?” she asked him.

Doyle looked up at her with a wide but ultimately false smile. “We never did the dressing up thing.”

“What about tick-or-treating?”

“Afraid not.”

“Seriously? You missed out a ton of candy, let me tell you.”

“I was never a giant fan of sweets, so I never minded.”

“What about costume parties? You ever go to one?”

“Let me put it to you this way. The only times I ever dressed up were when I was trying to be an actor.”

“Ah, well, who needs costume parties when you ware a costume daily, right?”

Doyle opened his mouth, shut it again, and considered her carefully. He was starting to think she was beyond cheering up when an idea came to him. He could invite her over, bring her up to his flat, lock all the doors and let her undress in his bathroom. Give her the chance to her take her pelt out for unprejudiced company. Maybe he would do the same.  

_I'll show you mine if_ _you_ _show me_ _yours._

Doyle felt a bolt of exhilaration shoot through him. Right then he wanted nothing more than to see Oakley in her pelt, running free and wild with abandon through the rooms of his home. The thought was fleeting, 

_Forget it_ , he told himself.  _She would never agree to something that stupid._

In the wake of his self-defeat the waiter arrived and took their order. The food came less than ten minutes later. Oakley ate with a ravenous hunger and in doing so brightened up considerably. Doyle was glad for it. 

“Say, you ever wonder if the other ones exist?” Oakley asked him with a tired smile. 

Doyle tried to answer but his mouth was full of fried rice. He finished chewing and said “Other ones what?”

“Other things like us. Vampires, ghosts. Bigfoot.”

“The Lach Ness monster?”

“Don’t take the piss.”

“I've honesty never thought about it."

"Bullshit. Everybody thinks about it. Even the boring animals."

Doyle ran his tongue over his lips and leaned forward until his face was only a foot or so from Oakley's. "All right. I think about it. Sometimes. But I’ve no idea if any of them  _actually_  exist, Gerry. In theory they must do. I mean, if  _we_  exist, then  _they_  exist, but you've got to admit they keep themselves pretty well hidden.”

“Don’t we all.” Oakley said wistfully. 

“What do you think  _you_  would ask a vampire, if you ever met one?”

Oakley blew out her cheeks. "Well, I guess I'd ask them if people tasted different. And I don't mean different from chicken or steak or whatever. Like, if the taste varies from person to person. Kind of like how one deer will taste different from another deer. I'd ask them – do humans have individual flavors? Does AB-positive taste different from O-negative? Or is it all the same flavor?”

Doyle nodded. “If I ever came across a vampire I think I’d ask them if they'd ever been to Glastonbury.” 

“Vampires at Glastonbury. Are you for real?”

“Why not? Glastonbury would make the perfect hunting ground. Think about it. Non-stop night activity. Everybody high as a kite. People passing out left, right and center. Nobody noticing. Plus, all that music. It's practically dinner and a show.” 

A brief bubble of laughter from Oakley. “Unbelievable. These are actually the thoughts in your head?”

“I like to ponder the universe and it’s mysteries from time to time, yes.” he said with a coy little grin. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Perhaps, but consider this. If a vampire drinks the blood of a man who’s off his face, does that vampire then in turn, get smashed?”

"I can't believe I associate with you." 

"You're better for it. I'm an enlightened presence."

"Sure you are." She sat forward intently and asked “Do you ever wonder if it’s the same with the other ones?”

“The other creatures, you mean?”

“The other interesting animals.” she clarified. “You think vampires get depressed once a month?”

“I suspect it would be the opposite for vampires. They would revel in their monthly misery, hiding away in their gothic black coffin-silk aesthetic, and then be happy for a week and absolutely despise it. Imagine – a week's worth of listening to nothing but upbeat show-tunes and watching Bob bloody Ross on the telly. That would be any vampire's nightmare.”

Oakley slapped her forehead as if she has only just remembered something. "Bob Ross! That reminds me! I totally meant to ask you – how’s your drawing coming along?”

Doyle felt his cheeks darken. “Oh, you know. Mediocre at best. Nothing worth bragging about.”

“Well at least I know what to get your for Christmas now. Art supplies by the barrel full.”

“You don’t have to get me anything for Christmas, Gerry.”

“Sure I do. And speaking of gift-giving, when’s your birthday, anyway?”

“April. I’m afraid you’re a little late.”

“Are you really an April baby? Wow. That explains a lot.”

“Does it?”

“My brother Andy was an April baby. He's an Aries." She looked up at him mournfully. "Smooth and stubborn. That's him all over. You remind me of Andy sometimes, you know that?”

_She sees you as a brother, not a lover. As if she'd ever want to show **you**  her pelt._

Doyle pushed the thought aside and gave Oakley a cheeky grin. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

“Oh yeah. Andy was the best. It's really too bad I didn’t know you back then. Like, it's too bad you aren't American, you know?"

"An absolute tragedy." he joked.

"Really, though. If you were American I'd have come across you somehow I bet. I'd have come across you and introduced you to Andy. You and him would’ve been instant pals. I guarantee it.” said Oakley. She gazed sadly into her tea and huffed a small sigh. “Hell, if I’d have known you back then I could’ve got you to paint a family portrait of the pack for Christmas. All of us in our, umm, natural shapes. You know? Could’ve hung it over the fireplace and everything.”

The words left Doyle in a rush. “You could pose for me if you wanted to. Come back to my flat, change, sit for me while I paint your portrait. You could send it back overseas as a present for your parents.”

Doyle strove to keep his face blank while she considered.

“Parents have plenty of pictures of me already. If you did my portrait proper, I’d wind up keeping it." Oakley replied. "Be a nice reminder for me. Something I could use . . . I think I’m forgetting what I look like, scruff.” she told him with a weak laugh. 

Undeterred by her dejection, Doyle said “I can help. Let me paint you. Please.” 

"You don't want me for a model, believe me. Charlie says I can't sit still to save my life." she said, sounding vaguely uncomfortable. "I'd wind up driving you crazy."

_You already do, unfortunately_ , Doyle thought.

Oakley shifted in her seat, and beneath the table he felt the light caress of her foot as it accidentally brushed against his own. He took a fortifying breath and decided not to push things. 

“Not a problem.” he said, and attended to his meal.

 

* * *

 

When the check came, Doyle snatched it up before Oakley could protest. During their previous outings, Oakley had made it abundantly clear that she intended to pay for what she ate using her own money. Doyle had yet to insist on paying. Until now.  

"Let me." he said, taking out his wallet.

Oakley shook her head. "No. I don't want to stick you with a big bill."

She reached for the check and he nearly fell out of his chair. She pulled her hand back, looking conflicted.

"Don't be a jerk." she finally told him.

Doyle could tell she wasn't trying to be overly patronizing or offensive to his virility, but at the same time, she clearly hated the idea of owing anybody – particularly him – any favors.

"Look, it isn't that big, really." Doyle assured her.

"Yeah but I'd really prefer it if you didn't, Ian." Oakley told him. Hearing her say his name was like a static charge. It electrified him.

Doyle said "Just let me, Gerry. Please." 

Too tired to argue, Oakley gave a small nod, and that was the end of it.

They left the restaurant and made it all of two blocks before the wind picked up and sent the rain beating against the bricks with bruising force.

"Great. It's tipping it down now." Doyle grumbled. Thanks to the gale, water was sliding down his neck to soak the shirt under his jumper. "Haven't you got your umbrella tonight?" he asked Oakley. 

"I didn't think I'd need it." Oakley told him, holding her purse over her head. 

"It's rained the last few nights we've gotten together." Doyle pointed out.

"Yeah but not  _hard_." she argued. 

Doyle could tell by her tone that she was becoming nettled again.

"My dear, the sky weeps for you." he declared, trying to keep things light. "You bring the rain with you when you come. You should know that by now."

Oakley aimed a black look his way. "Yeah? Or maybe  _you_  bring it. This shit feels like Scottish weather to me."

"Would you like to go back inside? Have some dessert?"

"No. I need a smoke." she said, flipping her purse right-side up and rooting around for her cigarettes. Doyle shrugged and walked on through the rain. Oakley trailed behind him, struggling with her purse. "Oh no. No. Come on. Fucking really?  _Really_?"

Doyle spun around in a panic. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm out of fucking cigarettes."

Relieved, Doyle smiled at her. "Is that all? I thought it was an emergency."

"It  _is_  an emergency." She threw her hands up in utter exasperation. "Christ, I fucking hate everything."

"Relax." 

She whirled on him, staring daggers with the slitted eyes of her other self. "Don't you tell me to relax.  _You_  fucking relax. I'm having a shitty week here, okay. First the extra fucking shifts, then I get my rag, and now  _this._ "

Doyle stood his ground, baring the force of her tantrum with mild amusement. "Let's go back inside, Gerry."

"No." she snapped, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. 

Doyle had to stifle a laugh. Standing like that, Oakley was the perfect image of every sulking toddler ever.

"All right, we'll stay out here then." he told her.

Together they crossed the street to the edge of the alleyway and ducked under an overhang. 

"Jesus. It stinks here." Oakley muttered, holding her hand to her nose against the smell of the wet garbage.

"There'll be a cab along any minute now, I'm sure." Doyle said, leering down the gloomy road.

Beside him, Oakley was already drenched and starting to shiver. The brunt of the wet had come to her, and she looked absolutely miserable. Quickly, Doyle unbuttoned the collar of his jumper, only mildly damp, and pulled it up and over his head. The static from the yarn made his hair stand on end.

“Here.” he said, offering the jumper to Oakley. 

He watched her eye it with tight-mouthed reluctance. “I like the cold. Keeps me alert.”

“Keeps your teeth chattering, is what it does.” Doyle said with mock gravity. He waved the jumper in her face.

"I'm fine."

"Come on. It's soft. Not itchy at all." he coaxed. 

"I'm fine, scruff. Leave it alone."

She moved to push the jumper away, and Doyle dipped his head slightly, an unspoken suggestion to take the opportunity he had just afforded he. Oakley growled and yanked the jumper out of his hand. Doyle turned to grant her a moment of privacy, looking discreetly away from her as she raised her arms and slipped it on. After a minute he heard her say “There. Happy?”

Doyle faced her fully and in that instant he felt his resolve slip violently. The jumper was far too big on her. She was practically swimming in it. The sleeves dangled past her fingers like scarecrow hands, and the yellow on the wide collar made the dark puffs under her eyes look red and swollen. Doyle wanted desperately to think she looked ridiculous, but the slight pull of the cotton across her breasts makes him reconsider. He stared at her until he was looking past the obvious imperfections – until he could think only of the fact that Oakley was dressed in a piece of his clothing. Not the best piece of clothing he owned, but it still belonged to him. Now, it belonged to her too. Their first shared item. 

Oakley put her hands on her hips and cocked her head, expectant. "Well? It look good on me or what?"

Doyle's watch ticked four times before he finally answered her. 

“It suits you.” he rasped.

She turned then, a graceful spin on her toes, and struck a lackluster pose for him. “Art dealer powers activate. Form of – a Scotsman.” She looked disappointed. "Damn. Didn't work. Must not be bonny enough."

Doyle's throat felt tight and he clenched his teeth, popping the muscles in his jaw. He would have to make a mental note not to wash the jumper once he got it back from her. He wanted to use it for a pillowcase. 

Somehow, he managed to drag his eyes off of Oakley and reposition himself so that he was gazing at the cars parked across the street. Several tense minutes passed.

"I need a cigarette." Oakley whined. "You think there's any shops still open around here?"

"I doubt it."

"Well fuck." she spat. "Today sucks worse than a god damn black-hole vacuum-cleaner."

Doyle gave her a level look. "Don't you think you're being just a tad bit melodramatic?" he reasoned.

"Gee, officer, I didn't know being melodramatic was against the law." she sneered.

"Steady on."

Oakley let out a dog-like whimper. "Aw hell I'm sorry but I  _need_  a fucking cigarette, Ian."

“Right, well I can't just magic up a cigarette out of thin air for you, I'm sorry to say. You should quit smoking, Gerry.” Doyle remarked. “That nicotine fix is half the reason you’re so wound up right now." 

“Yeah, but if I quit smoking then what would I do with my mouth?” Oakley countered, sardonic.

A flood of suggestions came to Doyle’s mind – all of them the very definition of filthy. It took him several long seconds to regain his composure. 

“I’m serious. You really ought to think about quitting.” he repeated.

“Man, don’t you know anything?” Oakley barked. “You can’t just quit something that’s addictive. Life doesn’t work like that.”

“No,” Doyle sighed, staring at her lips. “I guess it doesn’t, does it.”

He struggled to peel his eyes back off of her and watch for a cab. In the downpour the roads were weirdly vacant. He decided he didn't mind it.

A moment later and Oakley said "I'm getting dripped on. Scoot over." 

Doyle heard the shimmy of fabric, felt her move beside him, and knew instinctively that the gap between was shrinking. Suddenly he realized that Oakley was trying to squeeze herself further under the overhang. 

"I'm as far over as I can go." Doyle told her quickly.

"No you're not." she insisted. "Scoot over already."

Panic flared in Doyle. If Oakley wanted to get out of the rain, it would involve pinning herself against him, and he could feel his finely tuned self-control beginning to deteriorate. He tried to back up, to compress himself, and found he was all but frozen stiff. At the same time, Oakley was now only a few inches away from him, and still moving. He caught another whiff of her, the dizzying smell of her menses, and felt the goose pimples rise along his forearm where she had touched him two weeks prior. She took another step towards him, and something hot and savage raced through his blood. He wanted to pull her into his arms and attack her mouth with his. It would be so easy. So perfect. He wanted to – but he didn't. 

Determined to remain calm, Doyle veered away from Oakley to hug the wall.Beside him, Oakley's fingers twitched nearer still, as if to touch his elbow. But in the end, she kept her hands to herself. ** _  
_**

"So what's the plan, scruff?" she asked him tightly. "Cause in case you didn't notice, the cabs aren't stopping and this rain's not exactly dying down."

"No, it isn't." he agreed. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

Exercising more than a modicum of self-control, Doyle was somehow able to remove himself from the safety of the overhang (and the alluring presence of Oakley) and run onto the sidewalk. The cool rain felt delightful against his hot skin, and from the curb he was eventually able to flag down a passing cab. Doyle made sure to pay the driver in advance, as an extra gesture of kindness to Oakley. As he waved her over, he noticed that she looked a little manic. And – were those tears in her eyes?  _No_ , thought Doyle.  _Only the rain on her face. She would never allow herself to cry in front of me. Surely._  

Oakley approached him and in a determinedly solid voice she started to apologize for her lack of congeniality.

"Hey, I'm sorry. Really. I never meant to loose my shit over a cigarette." she told Doyle lamely.

He cut her off with a swift shake of his head. "It's fine, I completely understand. And listen, the full moon's in two days. Everything will be alright. Okay?"

Oakley's frown was deep and full of self-reproach. She nodded and opened her arms to hug him. He darted past her.

"I'll see you next week, Gerry." he said, and hurriedly ushered her into the comfortable warmth of the cab – taking deliberate care not to touch her as he did so. 

When he went to shut the cab door she kicked her leg out, preventing him.

"Wait a minute. Aren't you getting in?" she asked him, audibly distressed. 

"Me? Oh, well, I was going to walk."

"Are you crazy? You've got zero insulation right now and it's damn cold in the rain."

Doyle waggled his eyebrows at her. "I like the cold. It keeps me alert."

He hoped she believed him. It was absolutely imperative that she went away. That he put some space between himself and temptation.

For a moment Oakley looked forlorn. Then she rolled her eyes and snorted at him. "Okay. If you insist. Have fun catching phenomena."

With that, she shut the door. Doyle watched the taxi pull away from the curb and carry her off into the gloom. He remained by himself for a short time afterward, enjoying the drizzle and the fresh sting of the cool air. When he finally roused himself to leave, his mind was still on fire, and his entire body was curling in on itself with want. 

 

* * *

 

_[Wednesday, August 26th. Night.]_

_[Late in the night, a turntable spins the final act of Peter and the Wolf at medium volume. Nearby, Ian Doyle sits, round-shouldered, at his desk, sketching in charcoal. The strathmore pad is nearly full with an assortment of sketches – the same subject, again and again, in different poses, enjoying different activities. The current sketch features a forest scene, and in it, a running figure. Naked and free.]_

 

In Doyle's mind Oakley did not assume her natural form. Doyle did not know what she looked like, though he wanted to know, and while he could use his imagination, it was more pleasant for him to picture her in the shape he  _did_  know. Holding the charcoal stick loosely between his thumb and forefinger, he shut his eyes and saw her running through the leaves. The deer starting ahead of her as she ran up the slope past him and over the steep hillside. Her eyes were bright yellow.

Doyle held his breath, focusing on her limber form, the width and stretch of the muscles in her calves, the foreshortening of her chest in comparison to her backside. Oakley running, running. A stitch in the music, a flash of bloody fur and dirty teeth. Oakley's sad, tired eyes – golden, beautiful – hidden by a puff of cigarette smoke. Oakley in the rain, in his jumper. Only his jumper. Long legs bare beneath it. Soft fingers reaching down to pull it over her head. Yellow eyes on him, always on him. Suggestive, seductive. Oakley as desiring as she was desirable. 

_Oh. . ._

Doyle felt a delightful shiver run along his spine, followed by a pang of guilt. He repressed the urge to tinge Oakley's image further with more dirty thoughts. The drawing was becoming carnal enough as it was. A second later and Oakley returned to him, pristine and respectful, limned in polleny light. Running out of sight, her dark hair bobbing. Without further interruption, Doyle finished the sketch and closed the drawing pad.  

His thoughts remained on Oakley even as he dressed for bed. He hoped she was all right. He hoped she was sleeping well. He wondered when her birthday was, realized he had never asked and would probably need to at some point. Later, as he stared at his bedroom ceiling, waiting for sleep to come, he reflected too on preparing a gift of her, just to be on the safe side. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was Spencer Hitsch's cabin. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

**SEPTEMBER - Waning Gibbous**

“We are all like the bright moon, we still have our darker side.”  
― Kahlil Gibran

 

 

_[Tuesday, September 1st. Night.]_

_[Oakley, curled up on the bed, the moon large and ominous in her window. She sleeps heavily and dreams of howling. But the sound is not the merry_ _carol_ _of a free wolf. The sound is pained and heartbroken – the scream of something dying.]_  

Oakley wandered through a vacant house, up the stairs, past peeling wallpaper and hung photographs. Past a shelf full of Victorian toys and other, ancient bric-a-brac, until she found herself inside a vast bedroom. Somewhere, a clock ticked away, though she could not see it. By the door she saw a white dress hanging on a silver hook, stained red at the crotch. And to the left, an antique dresser with an oval mirror. In it's dusty surface she saw her own face reversed and distorted, her twin in the glass. She watched as it's mouth fell open in a visceral shriek. Watched as it's nose and mouth split in two like a cracked walnut. Watched the wolf emerge from within, still baying, and seize upon the closest throat.  

 _Charlie –_  

She bolted awake then, a small squeak of alarm dying on her lips. She looked carefully around, took a few calming breaths. Then she remembered. 

 _Charlie . . ._  

When she'd made sure he was still there, whole and un-bloodied and breathing easily in the space beside her, she laid back into the safety of his arms and stared up at the ceiling with wide, yellow eyes. Sleep eluded her for the rest of the night. 

 

* * *

_[Wednesday, September 2nd. Evening.]_  

 _[_ _Dark sky over the street-goers. Rain coming down, spills off the rims of their umbrellas._ _Oakley trudges up the street towards Lee Ho Fooks with her own umbrella, comfortable in the familiar green skirt and matching jacket she sometimes wares to bolster her self-esteem.]_

 

Sitting in the corner of the cramped Chinese restaurant, Ian Doyle tapped his fingers on the table-top. He felt over-dressed in the black blazer and silk shirt. If it weren't for the fact he had had the common sense to wear jeans rather than his usual dress-trousers, he might have regretted his outfit.  

Feeling fidgety, he skimmed through the menu for a fifth time. He had long since memorized the choices.  

At eight o'clock he checked his watch, and felt true anxiety flutter awake in his chest. Oakley was late again. He still wasn't used to it. He wondered where she could be – why she insisted on making him wait. 

 _It's bad enough that I only get to see her for a few hours each week._ _Does she really have to prolong the torture?_  

Doyle covered the face of his watch with his shirt sleeve and set his focus back on the menu. The cigarette box felt foreign in his front pocket.   

At five past eight, Oakley arrived. Busy with the menu, Doyle did not see her walk in, but was instantly aware of her scent. The sweet aroma – free of blood – snaked it's way through the door and blocked out the smells of cooking meat and spices.  

Doyle smiled to himself as she took a seat directly across from him, and said the same thing she always said when she came to dinner. 

"Nice clothes. For an art dealer." 

With his eyes still on the menu Doyle sagged into his chair, instantly at ease. He struggled to recall a time in his life when he had ever been this comfortable with someone. Glancing casually up, he went to reply – but the words died on his tongue.  

Gauging from her face and posture, Oakley seemed on the brink of over-cheerfulness. She had applied far more makeup than usual, and the result reminded Doyle of funeral home cosmetics.  

And there was more. 

Oakley's hair was shorter, shaped into a curly bob with a blunt fringe.  

"You've cut your hair?" Doyle said, stunned.  

Oakley's head shot up. Panic-stricken, she grabbed at the space between her chin and shoulders. A second later, she smiled. 

"I cut my hair." she said. It took Doyle several blinks to grasp the joke. He clicked his tongue at her, sour, and waited patiently for her to elaborate. "I felt like a change." she said at last. "And speaking of change . . ."  

She plucked the menu out of his hands, and a spark of hot static shot through him. He quickly hid his hands below the table-top. 

Meanwhile, Oakley flipped through the menu. "So, you order yet, scruff?" 

Doyle was speechless. He was still mourning the loss of her hair. 

She handed the menu back to him. "Getting tired of the same thing. Gonna have something different tonight. Was thinking beef chow mein." 

"What possessed you to cut your hair?" He had to refrain from adding the word _gorgeous_ in front of the word _hair_.  

"It just so happens I like having it short. Easier to manage. You don't think it looks nice?" There was just the tiniest bit of apprehension in her voice.  

"Your hair is perfect." Doyle said. 

Relaxing again – "Good. Charlie thinks so too. Anyway, what're you having?" 

"Erm, the usual." 

She gave him a crooked grin. "Suit yourself."  

 _She's faking,_ Doyle realized suddenly. He met her sunken, shining eyes and said "Gerry, is everything okay?" 

"Oh sure. Everything's fine." 

Doyle waited for the charade to crumble. It didn't, so he reached into his pocket, pulled out the carton of cigarettes, and slid them across the table. 

Picking them up – "For me?" 

"I hope they'll do. I couldn't remember the brand you usually buy, but I knew you like the pre-rolled kind so I chose at random." Doyle said. 

"Oh . . ."  

He saw the same watery glaze come back to Oakley's eyes, only this time he knew it wasn't the rain. 

Oakley put the cigarettes into her purse and said "Thanks, man. You didn't have to do that." 

"I shouldn't have, really. It makes me an enabler." He watched her for a second. "Are you sure you're okay?"  

She gave him the same, crooked smile as before. "Absolutely. Fine and dandy like cotton c – Actually," she paused, looked at her purse, smile drooping. "Actually, no. Everything's not okay. Everything's a mess. I got some things I want to talk to you about, scruff." 

"I thought you might." 

"Not yet, though. Let's wait for the food, okay?"  

Doyle nodded and stared out of the window, looking pensive. By the time their food arrived, they were deep in conversation.  

Oakley circled through her job and then around to her current life with Charles. All the while, the subject of _change_ remained woven into the things she said. Finally, she spoke about her mood, and her frustration with it.  

"I can't describe it. It's like – like the music on the radio doesn't move me. Nothing moves me. Everything's the same." Oakley told him, poking unenthusiastically at her bowl of beef chow mein. “I thought I’d stop feeling like this once the moon got full, but that didn’t happen. I can’t be happy anymore. I’m broken, scruff. I've been miserable since the end of god damned August.”  

Doyle leaned towards her, keen to help. “How have you been sleeping, Gerry?” 

"I hate it when people ask me that." 

"Just tell me. How have you been sleeping?" 

“On a mattress.” 

“Gerry.” Doyle scolded.  

She sighed. “I’m gonna be honest with you, scruff. Lately, I never sleep. I'm pretty much one-hundred-percent nocturnal now."  

Doyle steepled his fingers under his chin and gave her a quick once-over. "Your mood could have to do with your sleep cycle, then." he speculated. 

“I think my sleep cycle’s a result of my mood, scruff.” Oakley said, in no way sparing him the severity of her sarcasm.  

"Could you be getting sick? Maybe you've caught a cold." 

"It's not a cold, it's insanity. I think I'm going crazy.” 

Doyle smiled and gave a noncommittal wave of his hand. “You aren’t going crazy. It's probably just hormones." As the words left his mouth, he worried that he had overstepped his bounds. He rubbed the nape of his neck and said "That is, I don't want to discourage you from being open with me, but the likelihood that it's hormones is–"  

Oakley shook her head.  

“It's not hormones. Believe me." She grew quiet. Then – "A couple nights ago . . . A couple nights ago I dreamed I bit Charlie." 

A silence stretched out as Doyle regarded her. 

"Have you ever dreamed about hurting him before?" Doyle eventually asked her. 

"No." 

Another beat. "Dissatisfaction has a way of making its self known." 

"I'm not dissatisfied with Charlie." Her tone was adamant. "I love Charlie. I love my job. I love my life. You know? Parts of it, anyway. Just not every part. It's getting too . . . too . . . boring? Maybe? I don't know.” 

"You like the stability of your life, you dislike the predictability of your routine." Doyle guessed. "To put it plainly, you want to spice things up.” 

"You sound like you're trying to sell me something."  

Doyle smiled. "Auditioning for an infomercial." 

She rolled one hand in the air, wordlessly urging him to continue. 

"It's okay to want change, Gerry. There's nothing wrong with that." Doyle told her. 

"Yeah but aren't I being self-centered, here? I mean, tell me I don't sound like an entitled brat or something." 

A curious, analytical expression came over Doyle's face. He looked past Oakley and saw all the way through to her boredom and her need for fulfillment. A second later, and he understood. 

She needed him to legitimize her feelings, to validate what she thought was selfishness. It had to come from him because he was impartial enough to be objective, but similar enough in nature to understand the longings she felt. It startled him to know she was as equally desperate for his affirmation as he was for hers.  

Oakley was still waiting for a response. 

Doyle licked his lips. It took an effort from him to speak. 

"You're not self-centered, Gerry,” he assured her, as gently as he could. 

"I feel like I am. I feel like I’m turning into a zombie. I'm tired all the time. It’s like, no matter what vitamins I take, what I eat, how much exercise I get – I’m completely spent."  

“There’s no need to beat yourself up over it. Lots of people feel tired from time to time.” 

“But it doesn’t last for them. For me, it lasts. I’m the fucking chosen one.” She hung her head. "My job performance is slipping, too. My friend Margie says I hardly pay attention anymore. She’s right. My concentration’s way off. I know it is. I'm a piece of shit right now.”  

She bared her teeth angrily. The sight of it excited Doyle beyond measure. He did his best to keep up the calm facade of an avid listener. 

"I’m sick of always being so fucking _tired_. And I'm sick of not caring. I used to care more, about everything. Work, Charlie, my friends. But now it’s like – what’s the point? Take work, right. I mean, I literally drag myself around that stupid airport all day, smelling everybody, hearing them bleat around like fucking sheep, and for what? Nobody ever congratulates me if I bust someone. I tell you what I get when I make a bust. Paperwork. Paperwork and abuse. Verbal threats. I’ve been called a bitch in just about every god damn language there is. And then there’s Charlie. I make an effort to be happy for him, he ignores me. I’m sad around him, he complains, or, surprise, he ignores me. I mean, I know he's busy – the man's got his own life, a career, and it's not like I want a medal or a cookie for acting happy or doing my job. But a bit of thanks would be nice, at least. Some fucking recognition from the guy I'm sleeping with . . .”  

“You don’t feel appreciated.” Doyle surmised. 

“You're damn right I don’t.”  

In a soft voice, Doyle said “I appreciate you.” 

“Thanks.” she muttered sadly.  

Doyle eyed the condensation forming on the windowpane for a moment before continuing. “Lack of appreciation leads to a lack of motivation.” he said, taking on a scholarly tone. “I’ve been where you are. Once, years and years ago, when I was a young man – so, you know, during the prehistoric age –“ 

“Scruff.” Oakley said with a disapproving lilt. 

“Yes, well, after my stint as an actor, I went to art school.” 

“You told me.” 

“And did I tell you that I got a job in advertising after I graduated?” 

“No. I mean, you mentioned something about a job, but you didn't tell me you were in advertising.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you now. After graduating I got a job as a graphic designer. It didn’t last, obviously, but at the time, for all intents and purposes, it was my dream job. All right, not entirely my dream job, but it _was_ what I’d gone to school for, more or less. And I thought myself absurdly lucky to have got a job that involved art, even the mass-produced kind. Art was something I enjoyed. I still enjoy it, but back then, I didn’t want to squander this great chance of making real money using my talents. Can you understand that?” 

Oakley nodded. 

Doyle said, “When I got this job, I should tell you, I hadn’t quite become the suave, confident man that I am today. I had a very humble mindset back then.” 

“Oh yeah, you were the humblest one there, right?” 

Doyle crinkled his nose at her and kept going. “Being that I did not think myself miraculous in any particular way, I thought I would earn my spot at the table with my impressive work ethic. So, I got in early as often as I could, stayed late, worked through my breaks, worked weekends, requested extra work. I was obsessed with worrying about my performance and my future. Looking back, it’s obvious that my lifestyle wasn’t sustainable. But at the time, I wore my workaholism like a badge of honor. The way I saw it, I had a phenomenal job. If I couldn’t be a famous actor, I would be a famous designer. A famous artist. I wanted to work as hard as it took to achieve that for myself.” 

“A hard worker is a happy worker.” Oakley spouted. “My dad taught me that. Sorry. Go on.” 

Doyle frowned. “As time went by, any semblance of a balanced life went out the window. I had no energy or desire to go out with people. I was neglecting my health. I was drinking. I became disillusioned with my work. Mind you, it wasn’t that I stopped liking the kind of work I did, generally speaking. I still loved art. I was just excruciatingly unhappy making it for a living.” 

“Sounds like burnout to me.” Oakley remarked.  

“Aye. And that’s exactly my point. In a few short years,” said Doyle, “I went from enthusiastic and dedicated, to stressed and exhausted nearly all of the time. Now, does that not sound familiar to you, Gerry?”  

It took her a second to catch on. Indignant, she said “I'm not burned out. I’d know it if I was.” 

“Would you? It took me ages to notice. Back when I was a designer, they would throw a dozen high-pressure projects my way. I’m talking tight deadlines, complicated specs, hardly any direction. I’d get no reward for finishing them, no break in-between. Just – on to the next assignment. For two years it went on that way, the same thing, over and over. I did as they said. Became an assembly-line artist. Never got a reprieve, never learned how to ask for one. I'm telling you, Gerry, a routine like that can wither you.”  

Drooping into her chair, Oakley rested her face on her first and with an angry huff she said “Shit. I need a cigarette. Can we go outside?” 

“No. Your cigarettes are an unhealthy coping strategy. You should quit.” 

She gave a dry laugh. “Aw hell, not this again." 

Doyle’s voice was judicious. "You're burned out, and you rely too heavily on cigarettes." 

"I do not, and I _am_ not." 

"Describe the schedule they have you on. Are you very busy at work? Do you find yourself under a lot of stress?"  

"I work in an airport, scruff. _Everybody's_ stressed." 

"Including you?" 

"Obviously _._ " 

"And do they ask you to take on extra shifts?" 

"Constantly." 

"And do you ever tell them _no_?" 

"I can't." 

"Why?" 

She started to answer but stopped herself. 

Doyle said "I'm telling you, it's burnout." 

"It is _not_ burnout." Oakley hissed, rummaging angrily through her purse for the carton of cigarettes. "It can't be burnout. I wouldn't let myself get burned out, I'm smarter than that. I'm a beast.”  

Her stubbornness was beginning to irritate him. 

"I think you're wrong, Gerry. I think it's already got a hold of you." Doyle argued. 

"Okay, fine – let's say it's burnout. Now how's about you tell me how to deal with it, wise-ass." she challenged.  

Doyle was momentarily taken aback. Her outburst held none of the petulance that her last had. Only passion, and a discomfiting edge of violence.  

He studied her pale, strained face and said "You should speak to Charles about this." _Charles_. He wanted to spit the name out like rancid milk.  

"I can't do that. I’m the most normal person he’s met. I’d hate to disappoint him.” 

"You don't have to tell him about the dream. Just the basics. Tell him you're unhappy. He can help." 

"He can play shrink, you mean." Oakley said, dejected. "That's what he does. He ignores me until I blow up, then he gives me his best Freud impression, as if that's supposed to help. Not his fault, just the way he's programmed." 

“You could quit your job. That's clearly the root of your stress." 

"I don't want Charlie to have to support me. That's how resentment builds. Besides, I like being able to contribute. Makes me feel useful. Independent." 

"You could find another job." Doyle put forward. 

"Yeah, right. I'm an immigrant. Worse – an _American_ immigrant. There's nothing you people hate more, except for maybe the French. Hell, the only reason I got my job at the airport was because Charlie has a few decent connections there." She sighed suddenly, hiding her face in her hands. "This is hopeless, isn't it." 

Doyle got the impression she was avoiding something specific. "Talk to Charles." he insisted. 

"Ian, what I really want to tell him, I _can't_ tell him. You read me?" said Oakley.  

Doyle saw the yellow in her eyes flare under her long lashes. He sucked in a sharp breath.  

"No, I suppose you can't. You need an unbiased, third party." he said, slightly amused and very turned-on. "Thanks for choosing me."  

Oakley smiled a warm sad smile that made her golden eyes shimmer. "Thanks for giving a shit." 

"Always." 

For a long second they stared at one another, and Doyle was lost in self-congratulation for the striking company he had somehow managed to keep. Then Oakley's eyes, still boldly yellow, flicked down to stare at her untouched food. That was when it clicked for him. 

“This is about wanting to let your pelt out. Isn't it.” Doyle said slowly. 

Oakley blushed, clearly too embarrassed to admit it outright. “I guess it is . . ." 

"Do you think it would help you feel better, if you let your pelt out?" 

"Maybe. Probably. But it's not like I can do that around here." 

"No privacy." Doyle realized.  

"Exactly. I'm stuck like this." 

"And you're going stir-crazy. Do you want to come over to my flat? You can use my restroom."  

"Ian, if I wanted to take a five minute break in a toilet don't you think I'd have done that already?" 

"Right. Understood. Ummm, have you tried asking your family for advice? Do you have an easy way of contacting them?" 

Oakley's lip started to quiver, so she bit it.  

"I send emails. Me and my brothers, we write each other. We're pretty consistent about it, but I don't have a good way of calling the folks. See, they're kind of peeved at me. For leaving." she said. Her voice was strangely hoarse. "Think I burned a couple of bridges when I went. Sorry – I'll be right back." 

It was at this point that Oakley unexpectedly excused herself to visit the restroom. Doyle used the time to fluff himself briefly by the reflection in his spoon. Ordinarily, self primping was done in only the most socially demanding situations – but lately he had fallen into the habit of over-grooming.  

"I was thinking." Doyle began as Oakley sat back down. "Have you considered returning to the states for a while?"  

It pained him to say it, to place the thought of leaving into her head, but it pained him even more to see her unhappy. 

Oakley shrugged. "Not enough scratch, not enough time. Vacation's broken up into three-day stints. I'd get to JFK and have to fly back the second I landed." 

"I'll bet they would give you the time, if you asked them." 

Oakley was suddenly solemn. "Going home's really not an option." 

Doyle pursed his lips, thinking.  

"These little rendezvouses of ours –" 

"You and your vocabulary." Oakley said, adjusting herself in the hard-wood chair. Her eyes looked red and raw, but there was no sign of leakage.  

"In my non-professional, non-clinical opinion, you could do with a change–" 

"I already _know_ that." 

"–of scenery." said Doyle.  

Oakley forced a laugh. "What – like hang a different painting in my bedroom?" 

"Well, you _could_ come by the gallery some time. You're always welcome. During business hours, I mean. You can just stand in front of a painting for as long as you like and commune with it.” 

Oakley tipped her head away, signaling her disinterest.  

"Actually, I was thinking we could go somewhere." Doyle said. "Together. Take a day trip to the zoo, for instance. See the wolves." 

"In their cages? It'd be like a mirror, wouldn't it. We'd look at them through their set of bars, they'd look at us through ours." she murmured unhappily. 

Doyle was getting sick of the somberness. He decided to try a different approach.  

"Tell me about your home. About letting your pelt out. Something in particular. Tell me what it is you miss the most." he requested.  

"Well there's my brothers, for a start. And my dad. I miss them a lot." she listed. "I guess I associate my family with my pelt. Umm. Dad owns a hunting store in town. Did I ever tell you that? Me and him, we'd go out in the fall, into the woods. Bag ourselves a stag or two. We'd take our rifles, but we'd never use them, if you catch my drift." she added in a low voice. 

 _[Doyle thinks of the world he inhabits in visual terms. As a wolf, every sense is heightened, but his visual resources are excellent and he thinks of revelation like the development of a painting. First as a simple, scribbled sketch, and from there, through many added layers of paint, into the finished piece. Oddly, for a visual creature, the idea arrives not with an image but with a sound.]_  

Behind them, someone slammed the door coming into the restaurant. Doyle thought he heard the snap-crack of lightning. He leaned further forward, gesturing for Oakley to do the same. In a whisper he said "Would you say you miss the hunt the most? Being in the forest? I may have a solution."  

Oakley stretched toward him, eagerly scratching her nails along the table-top. This close, Doyle could smell the spices on her breath, the traces of leftover shampoo. Fruity and light. 

"I think I know how I can get my hands on a cabin up north. Scottish highlands. It would be temporary, you understand, but you and I . . ." 

He broke off, devoured by her eyes, and grasped blindly for his self-control – but it was not there. 

 _Too late to back out now. You've committed yourself._  

"You and I . . . We could go away for a weekend. On a hunting trip. Just the two of us." Doyle said softly, dangerously. 

A flash of hesitation in her eyes, and then he was in the strangle-hold of regret. He should have kept his stupid mouth shu– 

"When?" Oakley whispered.  

Doyle was astonished. 

"This weekend." he said quickly. 

For a split second, she looked as though she might say yes. Instead, she frowned.  

"You'e nuts. We can't do that." 

He tried not to sound too upset. "Why? Why can't we?" 

"What do you mean, _why can't we?_ I don't have the time to just run away to Scotland." 

"Yes you do. On the weekends you do." His face was so close to hers, and suddenly the atmosphere was charged. She pulled back automatically, but it became clear to Doyle that she was drawn to him – to what he was saying. _Don't stop now, you've got her hooked, just reel her in._ "Come on," he said. "You deserve to let your pelt out. In fact, you _need_ to let it out. That much is obvious." 

Oakley rubbed her temples, deflating. "Yeah, I know it is." 

"So come with me. Up to the hills, the mountains. Fresh air, green trees, wide open spaces to run across." Doyle flapped his hands for punctuation. His accent too – clipped by decades of Soho living – became more pronounced. In his excitement he added several extra rolling r's onto _trees_ and _across_. "You can't just lock your pelt up and throw away the key, Gerry. You shouldn't have to settle for that. Neither of us should." 

"I know. But Charlie'll pitch a fit if I go, Ian. This is just the kind of thing that'll set him off." 

"If you tell him that you need it, that you won't be able to function without a day or two of proper mental rest –" 

She stifled a tortured groan, and all at once it occurred to Doyle that an important step had been taken. Their friendship had been elevated with her decision to tell him about herself in such an unguarded way. The last thing he wanted was to take advantage of her trust. 

"Charles really has got nothing to worry about. I solemnly swear. I am only trying to help you. It's your best interest I'm after. Nothing more." said Doyle. With that, he placed three fingers across his heart in a gesture of sincerity.  

He kept his hand on his heart while she contemplated, fairly certain of his intentions. He wanted to help her, and although he wanted other things too, he would not allow those wants to surface completely. Her wishes were worth all of his respect. 

From across the table Oakley regarded him with a sad, torn expression.  

"I know you're not trying to be sneaky on me." she sighed. "I know. It's just . . . Charlie's got a jealous streak, is all. Nothing crazy. He knows about you, sort of. And I only ever say nice things. But it's tricky. Dinner once a week with a friend, that's one thing. He's okay with that, but I don't think he'd want some guy he hasn't even met taking the woman he's been living with for the last six years up to some remote cabin in the woods for a – a secluded holiday weekend together." 

"Hunting trip. It would be a hunting trip, Gerry. You've gone out hunting alone with men before." 

"My brothers and my dad. And Charlie's met them."  

Doyle's reaction was swift. "Would it help if he met me, then? Saw that I wasn't a threat?"  

"It might." 

"I could invite you both around, if you like. You could come to mine for dinner this Friday, if the two of you are free." 

Instantly Doyle regretted his proposal. The idea of Charles (handsome, young, with his perfect hair and nice, flat teeth) entering his private place, assessing the kind of life he lead by poking at his nicknacks and examining his safe-haven, was completely unappealing. 

"Ummm." said Oakley.  

Doyle's discomfort was written on his face in bright bold letters, but he was a stubborn man. He may have made the mistake of picking the losing horse, but he was determined to cheer it to the end of the finish line – even if doing so made him look and feel like an ass. 

"Listen." Doyle said. "Come over for dinner. Charlie will meet me, and I promise, any suspicions he might have about me will disappear. Guaranteed. I mean, look at me. Even if I was trying to be sneaky, I could never trick you. You're good at reading people, you would see through my ruse in a heartbeat. Besides, who am I, compared to Charlie?" 

"Don't say that. Don't put yourself down on account of me." 

"You need this." Doyle told her. "We both do. And, hey, here's your chance to teach me how to hunt." 

A beat. 

"Better make it dinner at our place." Oakley quietly replied. "I know you don't like strange people in your den, and Charlie gets off on entertaining guests anyway. He loves to cook for people. He likes to pretend he's a master-chef." 

Relief flooded through Doyle. "Terrific. Oh, but, will Charles be all right, preparing a meal for me?" 

For the first time that night, Oakley's smile looked authentic. "Well sure. Hell, if I make him think it was his idea to have you over in the first place, it'll be a done deal." 

"Terrific." Doyle repeated, grinning. 

From his jacket pocket he withdrew a pen and hastily scribbled his personal telephone number onto one of the napkins. He pushed the napkin at Oakley, quick to retract his hand before she could grab it and make contact with any of his fingers. He instructed her to call him the moment arrangements had been made with Charles. 

"I'll show up with bells on." he assured her as they both stood. 

"I bet you will." she said, pocketing his number. 

Doyle was buttoning up his jacket when he noticed that Oakley was suddenly on the same side of the table as he was. Pushing into his space with open arms. Doyle put his hands up and she halted, puzzled. Clearly, she wanted to thank him. In an effort not to appear rude he said "Outside." 

Doyle accepted the hug awkwardly and without reciprocation outside on the rainy sidewalk. As Oakley drew away, Doyle's lips pinched tightly together, and he began to rub his arm – feigning that he had a cramp. He would look everywhere but at her happy face.  

Once Oakley was gone, Doyle took the long way home. Stomach churning with a mixture of guilt and giddiness, he spent the walk mulling over his actions. Doyle did not regret the idea of proposing a hunting trip with Oakley, but he did wonder if his mind had conjured up the plan because he wanted to get her alone ( _no, surely not, you're better than that_ ). Whether or not he made the right decision persuading her to go ( _of course, of course, it's for her own good_ ) weighed heavily on his mind. On the surface his motives were pure. The purpose of the trip was therapeutic, not romantic, and Doyle would hold himself to that come hell or high water. Even so, he continued to search himself for selfish intent long after he reached his flat and locked the door behind him. Afraid of finding any, he did not dig through his thoughts too deeply. 


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

**SEPTEMBER - Waning Gibbous**

“Some people immediately descend on the dishes the moment they have been set down. Wolves do that.”   
– Desiderius Erasmus

“Problem-solving is hunting; it is savage pleasure and we are born to it.”    
― [Thomas Harris](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/12455.Thomas_Harris)

 

 

_ [Wednesday, September 2nd. Night.]  
_

_[ Oakley's pale face – framed in the windows of the speeding cab, her golden eyes watching the bricks blur past in the darkness.]_   
 

Safe in the backseat and moving quickly down the roads of Mayfair, Oakley found she had ample time to think.

She knew she wanted change, almost any change. She knew she wanted to be assured and reassured that she was still dangerous by a member of her own kind. Someone who could assure her in a non-complacent way. And she knew that without some remedy, the part of herself she most cherished would probably die. But was it worth it to settle on such a rash, potentially dangerous plan of action? Just for the sake of reviving her past? In the dark of the cab she weighed the risks in her mind and somehow calculated that they were worth taking. After all, the hunting trip was not only an appealing idea, but a smart one. She knew she needed an injection, a transfusion of the essence of her past, and she knew that Ian Doyle was the only possible donor available. And even if the past could not be revived, there was still a chance of recalling it physically as well as mentally. The thought of abandoning her humanity never entered her mind. She sought only to restore the wolf inside her, and when all was said and done she would return to her human life and live it happily, as she was meant to.  

But one thing still bothered her. Was Doyle's offer to help her an authentic act of selflessness, or did he have an ulterior motive? Some sort of secondary agenda that she wasn’t aware of?  

That night in bed she found herself trying to figure out what Doyle might gain from the venture, besides a fuller understanding of himself and the capacity to hunt. She thought about Vikings and bloodlines and the Scottish coast. Tall men with wiry hair and a relentless belief that you finish any job you start. She was glad that Doyle had responded to her inner crisis with what seemed like a genuine desire to assist, but she couldn't help but wonder if he saw her as a thing that needed fixing. Some pet project – like a broken clock or a spice rack. If so, did that mean he wouldn't quit until she was happy again? Until he got the desired result? Oakley hoped not. Any man who put that much effort into making her happy would inevitably want something in return, and she did not feel prepared to pay Doyle back. 

Oakley was perceptive enough to recognize when someone was attracted to her. She believed (for the most part) that Doyle’s attraction to her was minimal, and that his intentions towards her were innocent. He had never given her any real reason to think otherwise. Wolf or not, he was too shy, too fidgety around her to play the part of possible predator. But even despite his shyness, she still harbored some small suspicion. The paranoia of a woman who had, in her lifetime, endured a fair amount of shifty behavior from men.  

When it came to Doyle, though, Oakley believed that her mistrust was more or less unfounded. Doyle had only ever been the perfect gentleman with her – even from the beginning, when she'd assumed it necessary to draw a line between them in the metaphorical sand. Dubiety in Oakley was the product of a jaded mind, and as she drifted off to sleep she made a small pact with herself to place any misgivings she had about Doyle's intentions aside, and focus on the potential for a relaxing holiday. 

 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Thursday_ _, September 3rd_ _._ _Day_ _.]_  

On Thursday's shift, Oakley was vastly improved in her working methods. Easily she shook away the weight of depression by picturing appealing scenery. Cabins, pine-covered canopies, the cool crisp air of nature – unclouded by smog or dust or an over-abundance of noise.  

"I see you're feeling better," Hart commented as they made their way over to the luggage carousels. 

"Sure am," Oakley said, quietly, sincerely. 

"Share your secret?" Asked Hart. 

"Got a holiday coming up. This weekend, in fact." 

A delighted squeal from Hart. "Oooh – lucky thing. So where's Charlie taking you?" 

"He isn't?" 

"No?" 

"No." 

"You're mean you're going somewhere without Charlie?" 

"It's a hunting trip." 

"You hunt?" 

"That's right." 

"On your own?"  

She shook her head. “Not this time. It'll be me and a friend. We're going up together." 

Mild hint of disbelief – "A friend, huh? Who is it?" 

"You don't know him.” 

Hart was at once interested in the possibility of new gossip. " _Him_ , eh? Who is he then? Where'd you meet him?"  

Oakley tensed a little. "It's impolite to pry, Margie." 

A sly giggle from Hart. "Uh-huh, sure. Does Charlie know about him?" 

"As a matter of fact, we're having him round for dinner tomorrow night," Oakley said smugly. 

This answer was apparently satisfying enough to shut Hart up.  

The rest of the day flew by. When Oakley got out of work, she jogged back to Mayfair, stopping to chatting freely with the corner-shop clerks and afterward, her next-door neighbors. In the evening, she drove herself to be more active than she had in months. She cooked dinner, did the washing up, and cleaned and organized her side of the room. And in an effort not to alienate Charles Weller, Oakley did her best to drop as many subtle hints about her great and learned friend, Mr. Ian Doyle, as she possibly could without bringing the topic up directly. Most of these comments were made as she and Weller prepared for bed. Weller caught on quickly. 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Friday_ _, September_ _4_ _th._ _Day_ _.]_  

Before he left for work on Friday, Weller cornered Oakley in the kitchen with a small barrage of questions about Doyle. Thrown off-guard by the early-morning assault, the description of Doyle Oakley gave was less than truthful. But in the end her attempts to plant the idea of inviting her mysterious new friend to dinner were entirely successful.    

Later, Oakley brought Doyle's telephone number to the airport with her and called him from a payphone by the sally ports.  

When Doyle picked up, he sounded cross. "Hello?" 

"What's up, scruff?" 

Doyle's tone changed instantly. "Gerry. Hi. I was waiting to hear from you."  

"Guess what. You are formally invited to dinner tonight."  

"What time?" 

"Eight o'clock. Same as usual." 

"I'll be there." 

"Damn strait you will. Anyway, got a pen? I'll give you my address."  

When they were finished she hung up, grinning from ear to ear.  

* * *

 _[_ _Friday_ _, September_ _4_ _th._ _Evening_ _.]_  

Oakley was still grinning when she heard the doorbell ring later that evening. 

When she opened the front door she found Doyle (scrubbed shiny and wearing his best suit) waiting at the base of her stoop with a bottle of red wine in one hand, and a crumpled bit of paper in the other. Her address, penned in chicken-scratch – nothing like Weller's neat handwriting. Standing under the threshold, Oakley poked her head out from behind the door, and watched Doyle eye her up and down. 

"You look good," he said.  

Oakley glanced briefly down at her fitted flannel top and jean-skirt. "Thanks, you too. This your casual?" 

She heard him mumble a quick "Casual eccentric, more like."  

"Whatever you feel good in, scruff. We don't judge at Casa de Weller." 

Doyle began to clip the steps toward her. She came onto the stoop, holding the door open but blocking his entrance. In a whisper she said "Okay, so before you come in, just a couple things. One. We're having roast beef tonight. You're okay with that, right? Super. Two. You want to get on Charlie's good side? Compliment his cooking. It'll be worth it both ways, I promise. Aaaand three." 

She paused for impact. 

"In order to avoid any kind of, you know, jealous overreaction," she tittered awkwardly, "I  . . . may or may not have mentioned your age to Charlie." 

Doyle looked wounded. "Oh. Yes. I see. Good move." 

"Also," Oakley continued anxiously, "I may or may not have told him that you prefer the company of _men_." 

Ian Doyle, ever composed, went momentarily pale. He had less than a second to recover before he was dragged into the front hallway, where Charles Weller stood, waiting to meet him. 

"Charlie, bunny –" 

(Oakley thought Weller had small, sharp teeth. The teeth of a rodent. She thought they were cute. Harmless. Her nick-name for him was _bunny_.) 

"Charlie, bunny, we've got a stray come in. Let's get some food down his throat already," Oakley called out cheerfully. 

Weller, back-lit by the kitchen corridor, was somehow just as striking in the dirty cooking apron as he was in clean clothes. His spectacles flashed at Doyle, silently appraising. Up close, his face was chiseled. Oakley had to admit that Doyle was the better-dressed of the two, but Weller was by far the best looking. She watched the men shake hands, formal as anything, and was able to infer strait away that neither man cared very much for the other. But both seemed willing to tolerate the imposed company in order to appease her.  

"I understand you knew Edgar Boyd," said Weller, sounding like he'd been told to be as courteous as possible. 

"That's right. I sold some of Edgar's paintings," Doyle replied.  

Weller nodded, but said nothing more.  

Oakley wondered if Doyle could smell the money Weller came from. She knew Weller had the classic demeanor of a wealthy man. He was well polished, well read. Suave in a strait-laced kind of way, with a little learned humility, though not enough to stop him from sometimes coming across as a little condescending. And from the look of the apartment, Doyle could probably already tell that Weller was the neat-and-tidy type. The sort of man who favored control. Oakley hoped Doyle would look past that – past what could be considered snobbishness, even arrogance – and view Weller as he really was. Not a passionate man, but a methodically affectionate one. The one who made Oakley breakfast each morning, the one who drew her a bath when she asked him to, the one who never forgot a birthday or an anniversary. The one who filled her life with little romantic gestures, with random gifts and simple, sweet things like jewelry and clothing. Sometimes a surprise night out on the town. Weller would not buy Oakley flowers, though. He believed wilting things were a poor metaphor for love.  

"Erm, it's roast beef tonight, then?" Doyle said, trying his best to spark up a conversation.  

"Yes. That's right," said Weller. 

"It smells delicious. Thank you for having me over." 

Weller smiled tightly. "Of course. If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the food." 

The kitchen was a wash of stark colors and shiny metal. It had granite countertops and expensive appliances, including a six-burner range, a built-in wine chiller and a breakfast bar. At the moment, a litany of chopped vegetables lined the bar. Somewhere in the background, water boiled. Weller put the bottle of wine Doyle had brought into the wine chiller and returned to the food. While he worked, Oakley pulled Doyle back into the den.  

"Well?" She asked him. 

Doyle took a long, deep breath of Oakley's earthy scent and Weller's musk, all of it peppered with a host of other household smells. Carpet shampoo, hand soap, incense and high-price cologne. He exhaled with a smile. 

"You like?" Said Oakley. 

"He's . . . nice." Doyle said, his smile fading. 

"I meant do you like the _apartment_ , scruff," Oakley specified.

She knew she did not live in the total lap of luxury, but there was nothing in her home that disappointed her or made her feel ashamed. Even so, she craved Doyle's opinion – for whatever reason. She waited patiently while he looked around. The combined living-dining area was open onto the kitchen. It had a gas fireplace (more for show than for warmth), and a large mirror hanging above the mantle which gave the illusion of a larger space. Doyle saw that there was a utility room off the main den as well, where the washer and dryer were kept. 

"It's nice, too," Doyle said at last.  

"Yeah, it's pretty quiet for London," Oakley remarked. "And it's big, too. Plus, my roommate's alright," she added with a laugh. 

"Just alright?" Doyle questioned. 

Oakley rolled her eyes. "You know, we met at a gas station. Did I ever tell you that?" 

"You never told me how you two met, no." 

"It was at this gas station in Hulette, see. Charlie was cruising through, on his summer break. Came in to get directions on how to get to Devil's Tower. I just so happened to be there at the same time." 

" _Close Encounters._ " 

"Huh?" 

"It's a science fiction film. Nevermind. Keep going." 

"Well, anyway, that was the whole reason he was even in the states to begin with – to see Devil's Tower. He said it was like America's Eiffel Tower. I mean, never mind about the Grand Canyon, but yeah, we met at the gas station and he was lost and I said I'd lead him there – kind of show him around the place. And, so, I did. We went there together. Spent the day there just, like, talking." 

"You lead him to Devil's Tower, and then he lead you back here to London," Doyle said.  

"I guess so." 

"May I ask, what drew you to him exactly?" 

Oakley shrugged. "Dunno really. I was young. Trying to swallow the idea of living in Hulette. Dying in Hulette. I was down about it. Real down. You know, I get down sometimes." 

A mock gasp. "Do you really! I hadn't noticed." 

"Like I was saying – I was down and bored and everything, and then he comes sweeping into town. You know, all worldly and handsome with his accent. How could I resist?" 

Doyle's face twisted slightly, but only for a second.  

"For him, it was more like, he was rescuing me, I guess," Oakley continued.  

"Have a white-knight complex, does he?"  

"Kind of. I think he thought I was just some simple country girl at first. Boy, was he ever wrong," Oakley said with a sly smile. 

Doyle dodged her glance and asked "Have you told him about the hunting trip yet?" 

"Saving it for dinner." 

"Is that wise, to spring it on him like that?" 

"Don't worry. If he gets too ornery, I'll handle him. I can't wait to go, by the way. I've been thinking about it since Wednesday," Oakley said, and in return she thought she saw Doyle blush. 

At this point, the conversation dropped off to leave them standing awkwardly alone together in the center of the den. 

Suddenly Doyle became nervous. “If you don’t mind me asking, your job requires you to keep a dog. Doesn’t it?”  

“Sort of,” said Oakley, happy he was talking again. 

Doyle said “It’s just that you never . . . That is, I never smell it on you, when we meet.” 

“Sure hope I don’t smell like dogs,” Oakley chuckled. 

“But you _do_ keep one. Does it live at home with you?” Doyle asked, looking around. Starting to panic. 

Oakley shook her head. “Relax, scruff. You won’t get blind-sided tonight. We have a kennel at the airport. Part of the security wing. The dogs sleep there.” 

“Oh?" Doyle was relieved. "Is that healthy for them?”  

“Sure. There’s always someone around. Night officers, day officers. My dog, Shady, she’s got two handlers. Me, and the night shift guy. Eric Bander. Nice guy. Forties. Been divorced about three times now. Think he loves Shady more than his ex.” 

“I can understand that.”  

She smiled. “Wanna know something fun? Bomb-sniffing dogs aren’t really all that reliable in security situations.” 

“Is that right?” 

“Well, I mean, they are in principal. Communism’s reliable in principal too, but in practice, it's flawed as hell. See, a lot of dogs in pressure-filled situations, they take cues from their handlers, and so they wind up making mistakes. Here, give you an example. Let’s say we find an abandoned bag. Yeah? Procedure is to cordon off the area, have a dog check it out. But if the dog thinks the handler wants it to read the bag as suspicious, the dog will react accordingly.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. It’s pretty crazy, the number of incorrect alerts identified all because a handler’s beliefs affect a dog’s performance. The eggheads call it Animal Cognition. And, you know, sometimes, the handlers don’t know they’re dictating a dog’s behavior at all. In the case of a suspicious package, if an officer’s already on edge — well, then the dog’s going to react to the handler’s body language.” 

“But I’m guessing that doesn’t happen with you.” 

“No. For two reasons. First off, I can smell as well as Shady can. So I never get anxious about the wrong things. And second off, we let the dogs roam the airport. Sort of. Basically, we do sweeps. Random sweeps, scheduled sweeps. We do up to twelve sweeps a day. That way, our dogs can randomly search bags, and since the handlers won’t be expecting to get alarmed over anything, the dog doesn’t try so hard to make the _right_ decision.” 

“Very smart.” 

“I happen to think so, yeah. Besides, Charlie's not a big fan of dogs. Don't think he'd ever stand for one in the house.”  

Doyle grinned at her.  

Together, they walked a lazy circle around the edge of the room. Past a stack of CDs, neatly arranged by category. (From bottom to top there was modern jazz, contemporary jazz, piano atmospheres collection number one, and the best of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers). Past a sleek computer desk, the surface of which was free of dust. (The monitor was off and there was no hint of the extra work Weller often brought home with him.) Oakley explained that the building's contemporary, industrial style matched Weller’s penchant for the simplistic. It wasn't her favorite aesthetic, but she made do. Doyle confessed that he thought the apartment had a conflicting atmosphere. This was most evident in the mismatch of furniture. The couch and computer desk looked brand new – and they had a clean, un-lived-in look. Sterile almost, like a stage set. The wooden rocking-chair and the coffee table, on the other hand, looked like boot-fair antiques. 

"If you think that's a hoot then you should see the bedroom," Oakley said. 

On their way out of the den they passed a rack of DVDs. Doyle paused briefly to review them. 

“You want to borrow one?” Oakley asked him. 

“You've got a small selection here. All I see are John Wayne and Clint Eastwood films.” 

“There's a couple of Jimmy Stuarts in there somewhere. Oh, and the complete James Bond box set. Those are Charlie’s, though. He’s a suit and tie kinda guy. I’m a wild west kinda mess.”  

Upstairs, the bedroom was immaculate on one side, and an eclectic jumble on the other. The space Weller occupied was a composition of absolute order. All neat angles and cool colors. Okaley's space was covered by an odd assortment of colorful nicknacks, old laundry and home-made quilts.  

"Cleaned it up just for you," Oakley joked. She was curious to see how Doyle would react to her clutter.  

Hesitantly, he walked into the room, narrow gaze sweeping from corner to corner. He touched nothing, making his way through the room as if he were in a museum – surrounded by important, fragile things that were connected to security alarms. He bunched his fingers into rigid fists when he saw the bed.  

"I made that." Oakley pointed out, referring to one of the quilts. "That one there, the one with the butterflies. Took me half a year to finish. Probably the only artistic thing I ever did." 

"It's very well made, but to be honest, you don't really strike me as the butterfly type." Doyle said. His voice sounded raspy. 

"They’re the only other animals on the planet that can change into something else." Oakley clarified. 

"You’re forgetting about frogs." said Doyle. Now he was looking at the pair of framed pictures on the nightstand. The first one showed a prepubescent-Weller with his mother, and the second one – present-day-Weller, well-lit and kissing Oakley on a pebbly beach. 

"Frogs are ass-ugly." Oakley replied. "They don't count." 

A tiny dip of Doyle's head was all the response she got. He had moved away from the bed, and was busy avoiding one of the bras she'd left lying on the floor. He weaved around it like it was a land-mine. 

By the back wall, a range of different psychology books had been carefully stacked on a set of simple, sleek bookshelves. Doyle said "I take it these are Charles' books. Where are yours?" 

Oakley motioned to a small blue chest at the foot of the bed. 

"Doesn't he let you keep them out?" Doyle asked. 

"I don't have that many. It'd be silly to buy another shelf for them." 

"May I?" 

Oakley nodded. She watched him lift the creaky lid of the chest and reach inside.  

"Call of the Wild. Tom Sawyer. Mountains of Madness?" 

"What. Aren't you a Lovecraft fan?" 

"Not especially. You have five different copies of the Wizard of Oz in here, you know." 

"I sure do." Oakley said proudly. "That's one from every place I visited. Sort of my _not in Kansas_ thing I guess." 

"Where's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?" 

"Don't have that one."  

"I'll have to fix that." Doyle said, letting the lid fall shut again. 

Oakley had very few childish things. She had given away the dolls and plush toys long ago, and besides the books, there was only one other thing in the bedroom that came directly from her past. A small, soft-felt stetson hanging on one of the foot-board bed-knobs. With the greatest of care, Doyle pulled the hat off the bed-knob, and sniffed it.  

“This is yours,” he said, sounding surprised. 

"I used to want to be Wyatt Earp when I was a kid." 

Oakley watched him hang the hat back up and continue to look around. 

The walk-in closet was divided by a set of pristine suits and matching wing-tip shoes, and a haphazard rack of crumpled skirts and dresses. Doyle moved along to the jumpers hanging loosely from crooked hooks drilled into the opposite wall. Tentative fingers flexed forward to feel the hem of the nearest dress, and Oakley saw Doyle's eyelids droop as an intense expression passed quickly over his face. He turned and checked over his shoulder, still pinching the jumper between his thumb and index finger. Oakley gave no indication that she was annoyed or embarrassed. He continued to caress the fabric.  

Eventually he moved on, stopping in front of the yellow jumper Oakley had been forced to wear two weeks prior.  

 _Shit. Forgot about that didn’t you._  

Oakley took a quick step forward and said “Hey, yeah. So I’ve been meaning to give that back to you and everything but, uh, well, see, there was a little incident with one of my cigarettes and, uh –“ 

Too late. He had already found the little black hole by the left wrist. 

Oakley rushed to apologize. “Aw hell I'm sorry, scruff, I swear I wasn’t trying to ruin it –”  

Doyle gave her a forgiving smile. “That’s alright. I don’t mind.” 

She blinked. “You mean you’re not mad?” 

“Why should I be?" 

She thought about it. "Dunno. Charlie'd give me hell, if I did that to one of _his_ shirts." 

Doyle said "I'm not Charlie. And anyway, accidents happen. I once splattered red paint all over a pair of new trousers. When I went to have them dry-cleaned the clerk looked at me as though I'd murdered someone.” 

Oakley relaxed. “I’m gonna sew it when I get the time." She said, motioning to the sweater-sleeve. "I promise.”  

Doyle shook his head. “No need to do that. It isn't a problem. Honestly.”  

Oakley took a seat on the end of the bed and watched Doyle inspect the rest of her private things. She did not consider herself a superficial person. The bedroom she shared with Weller was the best proof of this. Compared to the flashy things Doyle wore, and the sharp items Weller kept, Oakley's taste in clothing was plain, and practical. She did, however, own a handful of truly fancy things. A pair or two of gold earrings, a gemstone bracelet. A nice pearl necklace. Nothing tacky. Weller would never stoop to anything as undignified as buying her tacky jewelry. 

On the dresser-top were other things. Unscented lotions and plain powder. Open make-up packs, a hairbrush and several discarded headbands. An ash-tray and a spare carton of cigarettes. Doyle passed by them and went back over to the bed. He spent some time studying the tissues and the birth control pills on Oakley’s nightstand. The tampons were out of sight, tucked safely away in the bottom drawer of the nightstand, along with the condoms.  

Doyle's napkin drawing of her was in the top drawer – hidden even from Charles. 

Oakley stretched on the bed, searching for signs of judgment in Doyle's face. Very few people were given this kind of opportunity – to see behind the veil of Oakley’s outside persona. Briefly she wondered if Doyle approved of her tastes. Weller was sometimes critical of them, but not to the extent where she felt belittled. She saw the comments he made as constructive criticism, but strove to better herself only when it suited her. She let Doyle hunch and peer, knowing that if he felt inclined to criticize her in any way, she could easily shut him down. 

Several minutes passed. Oakley said "You getting hungry yet?" 

Doyle gave her a guileful look, and she felt her stomach tighten. For a split second she became oddly worried that he was going to open up one of her dresser drawers and begin rummaging through her unmentionables. She started to say something about it but stopped herself just as Weller called them down for dinner. 

In the dining room, Oakley made sure to sit Doyle at the head of the table. She and Charles flanked him on both sides, but he bore the weight of their scrutiny with considerable calm. 

At first they ate mostly in silence. Once or twice Oakley tried to start up some polite conversation, but every attempt she made fell flat.  

Finally, Doyle, who had yet to touch his meatloaf, picked up his fork and smelled it. “This isn't, erm, _real_ silver – is it?” 

Weller said “No. Gerry’s allergic to silver. We don't keep any in the house.” 

Doyle feigned surprise. “Really. I had no idea. Is it an extreme reaction?” 

“I get a rash, little bit of swelling.” Oakley said, playing along.  

“It's interesting that you smelled the fork just now." Weller commented. "Gerry sniffs the forks too. Whenever we find a new restaurant she'll do that. She can tell if a fork’s silver just by smelling it, apparently.”  

Oakley grinned as though she had been praised. 

“Funny.” Doyle said, “She never did that at Lee Ho Fooks.”  

“That wasn’t my first time there.” Oakley clarified. “Besides, most places don’t use real silver nowadays. The allergy’s pretty common.”   

“Mmm.” said Doyle. 

“Makes shopping for gifts pretty impossible, though, huh, bunny. When it comes to jewelry, I only take the gold stuff." She tried to make herself sound sophisticated without also sounding too pretentious. "I’m an expensive date.” she laughed.  

Weller gave her a warm smile. In front of them, Doyle took a hearty swig from his wine glass, looking pointedly sour.   

The meal went on. Doyle asked Weller about his job, about his students, about his social life, the life he lead outside of his illustrious career as a professor of psychology. Weller spoke in tight sentences. He said very little about himself. One of his many psychological tactics was to learn what he could about a person without revealing too much about himself at the same time. Weller liked to keep a good, clinical distance from the people he was introduced to. Only when he felt he had them figured out did he ever try to get closer.  

The second part of the dinner played out like an interview. Oakley said very little, silently chewing as Weller probed her friend with a variety of questions. Weller wanted to know about Doyle’s past, about his family, about his current life as an art dealer. Doyle was happy to oblige him. However, over the course of the meal the questions became more and more personal until the interview turned into an interrogation.  

“How often do you drink?” Weller asked, holding up his own wine glass as if to toast. 

“Not often. Special occasions mostly. During exhibit openings, holidays, that sort of thing.” said Doyle. 

“Do you use illegal substances?” 

Doyle gave Weller a sideways look. “Well I used to. Back in the seventies.” 

“Get out. What did you use?” Oakley asked, surprised. 

“Acid.” Doyle replied bluntly. 

Oakley laughed. Weller didn’t. 

“Were there any long-lasting, residual side effects?” Weller asked him. "Any psychosis?" he specified, sounding vaguely concerned. 

“Yes. Sometimes I think I can transform into an enormous wolf." Doyle said with a perfectly straight face. 

Oakley giggled nervously, opting for a subject change. "Charlie, bunny, did I tell you – Ian here hunts. Isn't that right, Ian?" 

"What? Oh. Yes. I hunt quite regularly." Doyle agreed. 

“You don’t seem like the type.” said Weller. "What do you hunt?"  

"What do I hunt?" Doyle repeated, giving Oakley a desperate look. "Erm, I hunt . . . turkeys." 

"Turkeys? In London?" Weller said. 

" _Pheasants_." Doyle said quickly. "Pardon me. I meant pheasants." 

"And he doesn't hunt them in London." Oakley said. She could see that Doyle was growing uncomfortable. "He goes up north, bunny." 

"Back to Scotland," Weller surmised.   
   
"That's right." said Doyle. 

Weller swirled his wine glass. "Have you got a group?" 

"No. It's mostly me on my own." Doyle said.  

"Wildfowling?" Weller asked. "Ducks, pheasants, grouse. That type of thing?" 

"That's right." said Doyle. He went to take a sip of wine. 

"What about your boyfriend?" asked Weller.   
   
To keep himself from spitting, Doyle swallowed hard, and spent a further minute coughing.  

" _Excuse me?_ " he wheezed, wide-eyed.  

"Your boyfriend." Weller said again. "Does he hunt too?" 

Before Doyle could reply, Oakley cut in with "He doesn't really like hunting. Does he, Ian?" 

Flustered, and sounding more than a little bitter, Doyle said "No. No, he doesn't, actually. He bloody well _hates_ it." 

"Ian's been looking for someone to go hunting with him. Isn't that right, Ian?" Oakley continued, flashing Doyle an encouraging smile.  

Doyle grit his teeth. "Oh, ah, yes. In fact, I thought, maybe, you might like to go with me sometime. This weekend, perhaps?"  

"No." Weller said simply, and placed his wine glass carefully on the table again. 

A tense second of silence followed. 

"Um, Ian, Charlie has to work this weekend." Oakley began with an awkward giggle. "But I can come with you, if you want." 

Doyle opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance. 

"No you can't." said Weller. 

Oakley's brow furrowed. "Uh, why can't I?" 

"Because I don't want you going out of town with some stranger you just met." said Weller. 

Oakley tried to laugh it off. "But I didn't just meet him, bunny. We've been friends for–" 

"A few weeks. Only a few weeks." Weller pointed out, calm as milk.  

Oakley's smile faded. "It's been over a month." 

Weller regarded her cooly. "And having known this man for over a month, can you honestly say, with any true degree of certainty, that he isn't a predator of some kind?"  

"Predator?" Oakley blurted. She felt a wave of panic surge over her, replaced immediately by understanding. She relaxed again. "Oh. Oh, you meant – bunny, come on. You know me. I can spot the weirdos, you know I can. Hell, my judgment's better than _yours_ is. And you're a trained psychologist. Do you really think I'd be hanging out with him–" she gestured to Doyle,"–if I thought he was some kind of homicidal maniac?" 

Weller remained stubbornly quiet. 

"Come on, quit being so paranoid. Ian's a great guy. I'll be fine going hunting with him." Oakley went on, half-pleading.  

More silence. 

"Please?" Oakley finally said. "I haven't been hunting in so long. I really want to." 

"Not this weekend." 

"But Ian–" 

"We'll get to know him better, first." 

Oakley recognized the patronizing tone Weller was using. The familiar, condescending pinch of _I know better than you do, I have a PHD_  just behind it. 

She kept her voice nonchalant. “You mean you don't know enough about him already? You just sat here grilling the man for the last twenty minutes. What – are you waiting for the cops to run a background check or something?” 

Weller visibly stiffened. "I have an idea. Why not wait until _next_ weekend, when I'm less busy? Then we can _all_ go hunting. The three of us, together." 

"You're busy next weekend, too, remember." Oakley pointed out. 

"Work can wait." said Weller. 

"Ian's busy too." said Oakley. 

Scowling, Doyle mumbled to himself "Yes, please, talk amongst yourselves. It isn't like you've got company sitting directly in front of you or anything. . ." 

Weller clasped his hands together on the tabletop. "I'm sorry? Did you say something?"  

“Oh, uh, where’s your restroom?” Doyle said at normal-volume. He started to stand up. 

From across the table both men heard Oakley snarl, low and stern. She played it off like she was clearing her throat. 

“On second thought, I’ll hold it.” Doyle said, quickly sitting back down. 

"You're making our guest uncomfortable, Geraldine." Weller told Oakley. 

Oakley gave him a tight-lipped smile. "That right? Hey, Ian – am I making you uncomfortable?" 

Doyle said "Not at all." 

Oakley registered the look of raging contempt on Doyle's face, and for a moment she felt a stab of guilt for forcing her only friend to endure such an awkward situation.  

 _It's_ _necessary_ _,_  she reminded herself. _Keep going._  

With new determination Oakley turned back to Weller and said "There, see? He's fine. Now, what were we talking about again? Oh, that's right. We were talking about how I never ask for anything big because you always shoot me down whenever I try to." 

"We can discuss it later, Geraldine." said Weller. 

"We're already discussing it, Charlie. I say we finish our discussion. Unless you're afraid to." Oakley replied, the warning carefully hidden in her tone. 

At that, Weller's mask of indifference faltered ever so slightly, letting a tiny shiver of envy creep through.  

Oakley's eyes hardened, patience suddenly gone.  

"You're hung up because you want me all for yourself. Don't you." she said. 

Adjusting his cuff-links, Weller said "That's absurd." 

"You know, the only reason I take the extra shifts on the weekends is because I know you never plan anything to do with me. You're always busy. You work more overtime than I do." 

"That's because I actually want to _advance_ in my career." Weller muttered.  

All at once the brunt of Oakley's anger appeared, tinging her voice with a thick dash of American salt.  

"Well it doesn't really matter, does it. Work aside, I was invited to go hunting. So I'm going, whether you like it or not, _Chuck_. And you'd better just go ahead and quit giving me attitude about it. Otherwise there'll be some bad blood between us, and you know for a _fact_ it ain't gonna be me who winds up sleeping on the damn couch tonight." she said, glaring at him – daring him to contradict her. 

At the head of the table, Doyle hastily spoke up. "Erm, Charles? I–ah–I understand your concerns. Really, I do. In fact, my boyfriend was a bit dubious about me going hunting with somebody else, at first, too. But, you know, the foundation of any good relationship is trust. And Geoffrey –" 

Oakley hid her snigger with a napkin. 

"Geoffrey trusts me." Doyle went on, shooting an annoyed glance in her direction. "We love each other, support each other. We, uhmm, we give each other the freedom to lead our own lives." 

Bit over the top, but he was selling it nonetheless.  

"When Geoffrey told me he didn't like the idea of my going on some hunting trip with some random woman, I said – darling, you can't deny your lover friends. That's alienation." Doyle kept his smile warm, to keep the sting out of the word. "And besides, he knows that nothing could ever compromise my love for him." 

Oakley would have to remember to compliment Doyle on his acting skills later on. 

Weller sat back in his chair, looking amused. Oakley offered him a short moment of quiet to mull things over.  

Finally, Weller said "That's very sweet, Ian." He turned to Oakley and took a econd to scan her face. Hedging his bets, he said "But I still don't like the idea of Gerry going off alone with someone who's still basically a stranger." 

Oakley bristled. "Why? You think I'm fucking him? Is that it?" She saw both men wince at the crassness of her words. "That's just plain idiotic, Charlie. Why the hell would I let you invite Ian over if I was fucking him on the side? Jesus, don't you think I'd at least try and keep him a secret if that was the case?" 

She didn't want to fixate on the myriad indignities of daily life, not when she was supposed to be entertaining, but there she was, all suffering and no satisfaction. 

"Six years. Six god damned years I've been living here and I haven't made a single friend – not one friend of my own. And don't you _dare_ try and tell me that it's my fault because I had plenty of friends back when I was in the states, and you know it." she spat. "Six years I've been here, six years I've been going out and talking to people and all I have to show for it is Margie from fucking work, and your damned university crowd. Bunch of stuck-up eggheads. I mean, do they ever invite _me_ out to their cocktail parties or their fundraisers? No. They only invite you. I get dragged along because I'm your go-to plus-one. But that's just the way you like it. Isn't it? You love the fact I only ever go out with you, I only ever do what _you_ want to do. I don't have any friends because you won't let me out of your sight long enough to make any! And now that I finally have one, a real friend, a friend who wants to do things with me, who likes to spend time with me, you're going to give me shit for it? Un-fucking-believable."  

She stood up. 

"Un-fucking-believable, and god damn immature." she scolded. "I'm going hunting this weekend, Charlie. If it makes you jealous, well that's your problem. Not mine." 

Weller held firm, but as soon as Oakley went to storm confidently out of the dining room, he called after her. She turned and, to her satisfaction, saw him squirming in his chair. The balance of power had appropriately shifted.  

"Gerry . . . I'm sorry. I was only being cautious." Weller explained. 

Oakley resisted the urge to bare her teeth at him.  

"You know what? I'm sick of you being cautious. And I'm sick of you thinking I'm some weak little thing." she snarled. "That I can't take care of myself. That I need you around to protect me all the damn time. They gave me a job in security, for Christ sake. They trust me with illegal substances. They trust me with drugs. Fireworks. _Bombs_. The fact that you don't trust me to go out on my own is a real problem. Once again – _your_ problem, not mine."   

"We, ehm, would give you the address." Doyle interjected, sounding almost as anxious as Weller looked. 

Evidently, Oakley's display had frightened them both. _Good_ , she thought to herself.  

"And she'll have her phone with her, of course." Doyle added. "I'll see to it she checks in with you regularly while she's away. There's really nothing to worry about."  

Oakley pinned Weller with her frosty gaze. When he replied, he spoke quietly. "All things considered, I guess I can spare you for the weekend. But you _will_ check in with me. Yes?" 

Oakley came back to herself, shaky but otherwise all right – and felt the obligatory surge of power that came with winning an argument. She did not let it go to her head, though she _was_ proud of herself. Things had escalated, but she thought she had handled it well. She had only had to raise her voice a little bit, and that was only to drive her point home. With Weller sufficiently emasculated, she let a coy smile of triumph spread across her face.  

"Well sure. I'll check in all the time, bunny." she told Weller. 

"And you'll bring me back something I can cook. A pheasant. One you shot yourself." Weller dictated. 

The rest of Oakley's anger melted instantly away. Without words, she flung herself at Weller and hooked herself to his lips.   
   
"Yes, well, it's settled then." Doyle muttered, sounding only mildly disgusted. "I'll have her call you. Check in. I'll check in too, with, uh, Geoffrey. He . . . He goes mad if I don't keep in touch. He's clingy, but, well, you love who you–" He huffed a terrific sigh, "–love." 

The pair ignored him, lost in the moment. Doyle studied his wine glass until they finally parted for air.    
  

* * *

   
Following their small argument, Oakley made a sincere effort to speak as highly as possible of Weller's many splendid accomplishments. In this way, she would ensure a lesser chance of Weller sulking. She told Doyle about Weller' talent with the written word, how he had had several articles printed in well-known psychiatric magazines. She made sure to mention Weller's skill in the kitchen, and complimented him several times over on preparing such a grand meal for her and her thankful friend.   
   
As Oakley lavished an almost theatrical amount of affection on Weller, Doyle said very little. Once or twice he tried to make amends to the off-put Charles with a bland joke, but just then he suffered from an unusually dry sense of humor. Oakley did her best to try and appreciate it, even when Weller refused to. 

After dinner, Oakley left Weller to do the washing up. She and Doyle moved back into the den to discuss the particulars of their arrangement. 

"So what's the low-down, scruff? Give me the details." said Oakley. 

"Nearly everything's been arranged." Doyle told her. "I've got us a little log house, three bedroom, up in the heart of Highland Perthshire. I can write the address down before I leave, if Charles needs me to." 

"Is it near the woods?" asked Oakley. 

"Yes. I'm renting it through a friend of mine." 

"A friend of yours?" 

"Spencer Hitsch. Another painter. Remember the German I told you about? He offered me a month's worth of weekends in exchange for extra hanging space in the window by the entrance. He paints landscapes, with the good hand. Showed me a painting he'd done of the house. It looked okay. We can leave together tomorrow morning, if you like. Meet at my flat?" Doyle suggested. 

Oakley was surprised to feel her chest tighten with excitement, and some apprehension too. 

"That was awful presumptuous of you, getting everything together before you even knew the verdict." she teased.  

Doyle scratched his chin, sheepish and shy.  

"Yes, well, I somehow figured you would get your way. Is that what normally happens when you and Charles butt heads?" he ventured, looking past her and into the kitchen. 

"Not usually. Most of the time I let Charlie play the dominant role, but –" she smiled thoughtfully, "Sometimes, my inner-alpha kind of gets the better of me. Guess that happened tonight, huh." 

"Apparently." said Doyle, still peering over her shoulder at Weller. 

"Hey, listen. Don't let Charlie's sulking bother you, okay." said Oakley. "He's processing now, it'll take him an hour or two. But once I put him to bed and, uhmm, _tuck him in_ , he'll be fine again. He doesn't like to let me see how much I can get to him. It's just our weird little power play." she whispered with a quick wink. 

Doyle's expression soured for a moment. Then he was amiable again. "I did some researching on the train tickets yesterday. The only thing I have left to do is order them. I'll sort that out tonight, and we can pick them up at the station tomorrow." 

"What time should I come over?"  

"The earliest train leaves at ten-thirty in the morning. So, shall we say ten?"  

"All right. How long's the trip?"  

"Around eight and a half hours."  

Oakley nodded, letting that sink in. "And how long are we gone for? Got to know how many days I'm calling out sick."  

"I've booked the cabin tomorrow through Wednesday, although Wednesday will be our travel-back day."  

"Gotcha." said Oakley. She made a mental note to ring Margie Hart after he was gone, and ask her to cover any unexpected shifts her supervisor might throw at her.  

An unpleasant beat. Then –  

"You know, you didn't have to do all of this for me." Oakley told him softly.    

"Yes I did." Doyle said in a tender, defeated tone of voice. "I can't refuse you anything. You know that." 

"I know. I just don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of your generosity or something."    

"You're not." He assured her.    

Oakley grinned. "Well anyway, what should I bring?"  

"The usual toiletries, I expect. Your phone and charger, too." said Doyle. "And Hitsch recommended we bring two fresh sets of sheets and pillowcases as well, in case the beds at the cabin are undressed. I can be in charge of that if you like."  

"Okay. Where do you live?"  

He laughed. "That's right. You'll need my address, too, won't you. Have you got a notepad and a pen?" 

Doyle wrote his address down twice, along with the address of the cabin, and the phone number for both places. One copy was given to Weller, and the other to Oakley. Afterward, she and Doyle said their good-byes at the front door – perfunctory compliments, redundant thanks. A quick, stolen hug. Doyle left looking befuddled, as usual, by the embrace. Oakley went to bed an hour later, and dreamed again of the wolf with blue eyes. 

  


	9. Chapter 9

**9.**

**SEPTEMBER - Last Quarter**

 

“We ran as if to meet the moon.”

― [Robert Frost](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7715.Robert_Frost)

 

 

 

_[Saturday, September 5th. Early morning.]_

 

 _[_ _Below_ _lead-gray skies_ _–_ _t_ _he last damp touch of summer –_ _Doyle's_ _gallery_ _is dripping and soggy on the street-side. A sign_ _hangs_ _idly in the front window among the featured paintings_ _._ _It reads "Sorry, We're Closed Today"._ _]_  

 

Doyle woke before dawn, his mind crawling with nervous energy. Too frightened to get up and too excited to fall back asleep, he lay in his bed, ruminating on all the different ways the day might possibly play out.   

At first he tried to avoid painting an overly optimistic picture for himself, but in the end he couldn't help it. After all, how much harm could it really do to dwell on his delusions for a few sparse seconds? If anything, it would afford him the opportunity to critique, and thereby hopefully diminish, all the drastically flawed thoughts that kept popping intrusively into his head.    

Resting back against the pillows, Doyle allowed himself to conjure up the most impractical fantasy-version of how the day's events might ( _Never in a million years, you foolish boy!_ ) go. His goal was to pick the scenario apart until he finally saw reason. At least, that was what he told himself internally. Externally, he watched the room melt dreamily away and become a staid little outdoor clearing, surrounded by a dignified span of Scottish trees.  

A serene setting perfect for romance.  

He and Oakley would arrive there at dusk and see the sun setting yellow orange through the crisp black branches of the canopy. Oakley would be thrilled, beyond thrilled. Ecstatic, and she would want to thank him for bringing her there. She would let him take her into the secluded woods, where there was nothing residential around for miles, and let him tear off her clothes and bury himself up to the hilt in her.   

 _What? No. Not like that._   

Doyle propped himself up on one elbow, switched on the bedside lamp, and looked around. The trees were erased in a splash of light and all that remained were the bland walls of his bedroom.  

He spoke to himself in the early morning quiet.  

“No more lovesick pining.” He instructed sternly. “Keep your head. Remember why you’re doing this. You want to help her, but above all, you want to help yourself.”   

The trip would give him the perfect chance to get good and sick of her.   

 _“_ Drown a cold, starve a flu, over-feed an obsession." He whispered to himself. "You'll be with her for five days straight –" ( _Four days! Bloody hell!_ ) "And by the time you get back here, you’ll not want to see her for a month. You won't even feel like sketching her, by God. _”_   

The statement lacked conviction. Even so, Doyle was determined to see it that way. He hunkered back down in the bed and did his best to see Oakley in an unflattering light. But for all his artistic imagination was worth, he simply could not fit her into a plausible daydream. What started as a sickly, bored, irritable-looking Oakley transformed into a delicious mess with tousled hair and ripped stockings and blood-red lipstick, smeared slightly across the left side of her dainty chin.  

 _No, too physical. Try again._   

While Doyle firmly believed that sex with a woman had the potential to be world shattering, he also knew that sex came with a bitter edge to it. The lust could ebb away and leave a cold sinking feeling behind. A kind of ugly, ashen sense of un-fulfillment. Sex could be forgettable, if it was only about the physical side of things. There had to be more behind it than that. Enough to push the carnal into romance. Enough to turn intercourse into full-on love making.   

 _There has to be intimacy involved_ , thought Doyle. _Some kind of emotional connection between both parties. Both have to_ _want_ _to enjoy each other._    

Doyle shut his eyes and made believe he was listening to Oakley profess her undying love for him. It was a silly, sad thought, and he knew it, but he let himself think it all the same. In his mind he crafted her twangy voice, alive and overflowing with passion and sincerity. Closer now, her plump lips nuzzling the crook of his neck, her warm breath on his ear – whispering a multitude of magical things to him. Gratitude and sweet poetry and secret promises and that final trembling disclosure. How much she wanted him, how much he meant to her, how special and unique he was, how she wanted to be with him forever, feel him inside her, come around him again and again because she was utterly, blissfully, insanely in love with him.  

In the back of mind Doyle recognized that it was both very invigorating, and very depressing, to entertain the notion that his attraction to Oakley might someday be reciprocated – even though, deep down, he knew that it really was an absurd thing to wish for.   

Even so, Doyle let himself linger on the scene a little while longer as a kind of melancholy farewell to it. He saw himself and Oakley in the woods again _(For the last time, honestly_ ) _,_ in a foreign bed ( _How did that get there?), b_ oth of them naked, duvet gone, with Oakley eagerly grinding against him as he dotted her cheeks and nose with feather-light kisses.    

"Thank you for bringing me here, Ian," He could almost hear her murmur, over the sound of his pounding heart. "I owe you so much, Ian. So much . . ."  

Instantly disgusted with himself, Doyle clambered out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, where he proceeded to take a very long, very cold shower – hoping to instill in himself a fresher, more rational perspective for the rest of the day.     
 

 

* * *

 

After the shower Doyle stood before the full length standing mirror on the back of his bedroom door, carefully examining his reflection in the glass.      

He recalled a time, not too long ago, when he used to think he had done a decent job of preserving the smoothness and sinuousness of youth. Now, he saw someone unkempt and slipping out of his prime. A tired, worn-out old man with thin greying hair and sallow skin. Too much of it wrinkled, too much of it sagging. An aged, haggard man with an aged, haggard face that no woman could possibly want. Least of all Geraldine Oakley.     

As if that thought hadn't been sobering enough, on the tail end of it came an abrupt flash of memory from the night before. Oakley; flaunting herself in front of handsome Weller after their little tiff at the dinner table. The way she had touched Weller, how she had traced lazy little circles onto the top of his fine knuckles. The way she punctuated each of his sentences with her breathy little laughs and sensual purrs.   

Doyle wondered why she liked Weller in the first place. She had little in common with him. Their tastes in music were different, their tastes in films were different, their tastes in books were different. Even their living habits seemed vastly different to Doyle, and although it was only mild speculation, he couldn't shake the feeling that they made a rather poor match.   

 _Then again, does having things in common trump physical attraction to someone?_   

Doyle tried not to imagine what might have happened between Oakley and Weller after he'd left their home the night before. In his mind he saw Oakley retiring to Weller's bed. Oakley in Weller's intimate embrace. Weller’s young hands on her bare skin. Weller's thin lips on the nape of her neck, her soft hair tickling his perfect nose.  

Doyle's blood boiled.   

He did his best to remind himself that _he_ was the one taking Oakley away for the weekend – not Weller. That _he_ was the one who had sacrificed hanging space in his gallery to give Oakley a cabin in the woods. That _he_ was the one spending his valuable time and money to make sure Oakley had a nice, relaxing, enjoyable weekend away from the hustle and bustle of city-life.   

Not Weller.   

Weller didn’t care about Oakley the way Doyle did.    

 _He doesn't respect her,_ Doyle decided. _He babies her. Treats her like a pet instead of a person. How can she bloody well STAND it?_   

As far as Doyle was concerned, Weller was a snob and a creep. The kind of stubborn, possessive, overbearing man that was too blinded by his privilege to see how he was snuffing out the lively spirit of the woman who loved him.    

Doyle purposefully kept himself from adding that Weller was also very smart, extremely cultured, and more than a little well-read. He did not want to acknowledge the possibility that, had he met Weller first, the two of them might have turned out friends instead of –    

 _Not rivals. Rivals implies I have a chance with Gerry. But if not rivals, what then?_   

A harsh knot of uncertainty was forming in Doyle's stomach.     

He recalled those first uncomfortable moments with Weller, when the two of them had been forced to shake hands, and what it had been like to feel the younger man’s gaze press into him. To be sized up in a subtle, sneering way.   

Or that vague sense of threat that had formed when Doyle had been confronted with the undeniable truth that Weller really did possess subtle, intangible weapons he could not compete with. Good looks and youth and intelligence and legitimate sophistication and, above all, a communion with Oakley.    

But the worst of it – the thing that had really killed him from the inside – had been the feeling that came afterward. The sneaking suspicion that, at some point during his younger years, he might have been able to replicate himself in Weller's perfect image, if chance had permitted.   

Yes, Doyle was sure that, in his early thirties or so, he had likely had all the makings of Geraldine Oakley's dreamboy. With the key-word being _had_.  

Now, staring at himself in the dull glass of his bedroom mirror, Doyle wondered if he had been cheated out of something in life.   

Was he more deserving of Weller's perks than Weller was?  

Doyle turned away from the mirror sharply and felt a wave of anger and confusion ( _J_ _ealousy? Really? How adolescent!_ ) roll over him. He squared his shoulders and took a deep, calming breath. Comparing himself to Weller was doing nothing for his nerves, so he forced himself to stop, and busied himself with getting dressed.  

He laid the day's outfit crispy on the bed, returned to the bathroom, carefully shaved away the night's stubble, and then sprayed deodorant under each arm. After that he applied a healthy helping of cologne (a nice combination of lavender, resins and spice) to his chest and neck, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and finally, put his glasses on.  

He came out of the bedroom dressed in a tartan shirt and easy black trousers, ready to tackle the task of preparing his flat for five days' worth of vacancy.  

The first stop was the kitchen. Doyle cleared out the refrigerator, binning every scrap of old food he could find. Then he took the rubbish out, mopped the floors twice over, and hoovered the rug by the sink. After _that_ _,_ he moved back into the bedroom, changed the sheets on his bed, tidied his desk and art supplies, and made sure every article of dirty laundry was hidden away in the hamper.   

He then spent the better part of an hour rifling through his closet trying to find his old suitcase, an item that hadn't been seen (or used) in nearly nine months.    

Once his suitcase had been unearthed, Doyle returned to the den and, without a word, began to pick up some of the stray glasses, tea mugs, and coasters from the den. Because he did not strive to imitate the perfect order of Charles Weller’s flat, one or two cups were left purposefully behind. He was cleanly, but not uptight.  

When the last of the dishes were washed and put away, Doyle slipped on his apron, took up a cloth and rag and started wiping down every surface he could easily reach with lemon-scented disinfectant. This extra effort was both unnecessary and repetitive. He routinely cleaned his kitchen every Saturday night (his mother had driven it into his head, how import it was to keep up appearances). Even so, the thought of Oakley visiting at ten was driving him to want to dust, to polish, to clean every available inch of his flat with immaculate care – even if it was clean already – all so that she might find it suitable. Maybe even impressive.    

At one point Doyle wound up on his hand and knees in front hall with his nose a quarter of an inch above the shag carpet, scrubbing until every perceivable stain was only a vague blot of mild discoloration.   

As he scrubbed, he was uncharacteristically exuberant. He hummed to himself, whistled a little tune from some old film he'd seen years ago. Happy that he had finally been given the opportunity to provide Oakley with something that no one else could; relief from the tedium of human life, and a chance to be herself.   

By 9:52 AM he was finished cleaning, and had already started to pack.     
 

* * *

Across the city, Oakley was just leaving her flat. She reached the door of Doyle's gallery flushed after a fast walk from the Oxford Circus tube station, and promptly rang his doorbell. The noise made Doyle's heart leap into his throat. He came down the gallery steps to see her waving to him from the other side of the front window. She was dressed appropriately enough for late summer, wearing a white cotton dress and a light denim jacket.   

She stood on the sidewalk, peering into the gallery, miming the words "Hey, can I come in?" from behind the glass.     

Doyle practically darted across the gallery to the front door, nearly colliding with a small horse-sculpture he had stupidly place by the end of the dividing wall. He reached the door in a panicked tizzy, and froze as he went to open it, his fingers poised delicately above the knob.   

His home was clean, fresh smelling. He was fairly certain that there was no aspect of it that might offend Oakley. But at the same time, Doyle was afraid. He understood that his home was not like Oakley's home with Weller. His home was the sad and simple home of a long time and lonely bachelor. His home was his life, and if he answered the door and let her up into his flat, she would see how truly pathetic he was.      

He would invite her in, offer her a drink, and she would see his bleak refrigerator, the tiny table where he ate alone, the still piles his things stayed in for months until he moved them.     

She would feel the ache of his whole microwave-dinner tele-until-1AM lonesome life, and pity him.   

Oakley's subtle rejection had hurt Doyle that night in the empty cemetery, but he knew that her pity, if aimed at him, would wound him so deeply he would never recover.     

But there was nothing he could do about it now.     

Trembling, he took a deep, steadying breath, and braced himself.     

Somehow, the door opened, and then he saw Oakley, smiling kindly up at him from the sidewalk. All at once his fears evaporated. Replaced with the swift and reassuring confidence that Oakley would never judge him, just as he would never judge her or pressure her to change. Between the two of them there would only ever be an amiable acceptance of one another's faults and flaws.       

"Oh." Breathed Doyle. "You've come early."     

Oakley's smile stretched, and he noticed right away that there was an air of suppressed excitement around her.   

"Better early than late, right." She said. "Anyway – you packed? I figured we could hit the road and get a bite to eat at the train station."     

"I'm almost finished packing. Would you like to come inside? I'll just be a minute or two more." Doyle said, waving her into the gallery.   

"I didn't know you wore glasses, scruff." Oakley commented as she walked past him.      

Doyle realized he was still wearing his glasses, the awful thick rimmed pair that were bigger than his face. They probably made him look like some crotchety old man that had traveled forwards in time from the early sixties.     

Doyle was quick to cover himself. Smooth as a polished stone, he removed his glasses, looked at them, said "Apparently," and placed them back on his nose.     

Oakley gave him an approving nod. "You wear those a lot?"     

"Only when I'm doing something specific. Drawing, cleaning. Reading. I packed a few books, by the way. I thought, maybe, I could try my hand at reading to you on the train." Doyle suggested.     

"You mean like Charles does?"   

Doyle pursed his lips. "I suppose so, yes."   

"Sure, okay."     

She came in a little further, obviously curious.  

“So, this is where you work, huh? I like it. Small. Peaceful-like.”  

“Yes, and no one tries to smuggle fireworks in either.”  

"Lucky." She approached one of the paintings, a quaint portrait of a bird done in acrylic, and squinted at it. “Hmm, let me guess. A neo-post-modern piece that represents the futility of man, God, capitalism and the monarchy?”  

“Actually, I think that one’s a magpie.”   

“Close enough.”   

"Do you want it?"  

"No thanks. Not really my style."  

"Are you sure? I can reduce the price. I noticed a lack of art on your walls."  

She laughed. "Yeah, well, Charlie only had one art friend and now he's dead."  

Doyle frowned. Some of Boyd's paintings were still hanging at the back of the gallery. He said, "Well, you have me now, don't you?"  

"True. We should get you to stop by again and paint us a big romantic portrait for over the fireplace." Oakley said with a smile.  

The thought of painting Weller (classically strong chin, sharp cheekbones, small clean teeth) made Doyle want to retch. He smiled back at Oakley anyway.   

Together they passed through the main hall and around the desk, aiming for the miniature staircase that lead to the flat above. Doyle moved up the steps in a dainty way, looking not unlike a penguin. He pushed the door to his flat open and with a welcoming flourish he beckoned her across the threshold and into the front hall.      

"May I take your coat?"     

"Nah, I'll keep it on. We're only going to be here for a second anyway, right."   

"Of course. Uhm, while you're here, would you like a drink? I have water, tea, milk. Fanta?"     

"Actually I'd love some water."     

Doyle disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a glass of cool tap-water for Oakley, and a can of Fanta for himself. Oakley had moved out of the hall and was exploring the den. It was a mix of vibrant colors that, somehow, did not clash. Red curtains, blue walls, a yellow sofa. A classic, black clock with a white face ticked in the corner.     

"Hey, this is nice." Oakley remarked.  

"You were expecting it not to be?"  

She dismissed the comment with a laugh and continued to look around.  

Set against the back wall was a large bookcase that housed an electric mix of different biographies; the filmmaker Terence Davies, great British artist Count Arthur Strong, Vermeer, David Bowie, John Byrne. Beside the bookcase on the wall were some of Doyle's cruder drawings. Landscapes tacked up and taped up, and a few professional canvas-pieces from some of his clients – two of which were meant to mimic German Expressionism.    

Doyle wondered if Oakley thought the room looked stagy – if she could tell it had been set up for a visitor.   

He handed her the water and pointed to the bedroom. "I'm almost finished packing, if you'd like to come and take a look."     

All over the bedroom were clothes out of drawers and closets, Doyle's personal belongings: the mess of being only half-packed.     

Oakley leaned against the door-frame and said "Geez, scruff, how much are you packing? We're only going to be gone four days."       
        
Doyle paused, scrunching his eyebrows together. "No. Five days, wasn't it? Today and tomorrow, and then I thought you were going to take Monday, Tuesday _and_ Wednesday off as well."     

Studying her boots, Oakley said "Umm, I can't do Wednesday. Charlie would prefer it if I was around on Wednesday."  

"What? But he won't even be there, will he?"  

"My supervisor needs me for a shift, too."      

Doyle slumped slightly in his spot by the bed. He stared, confused and a little saddened, at the remaining piles of clothing that had yet to be placed into his suitcase.      

"Oh." was all he said.   

"Are you angry?"   

"No."   

"I can reimburse you for the extra day, if that matters."   

"That's not it. Saturday, today, is our travel day. We'll only really have two days together if we have to travel back again on Tuesday."     

"Don't worry, scruff. Two days'll be more than enough time to give you your first hunting lesson." Oakley said cheerfully.      

Doyle nodded glumly and started to return the excess articles of clothing to their respective places inside his closet. After a moment something occurred to him. "If you don't mind me asking, where's _your_ suitcase, Gerry?"    

Oakley gave him a straightforward look and spread out her arms. "This is it. I'm wearing everything I'm bringing. And I've got my phone and my cigarettes and my toothbrush in my purse."    

"What about your pajamas?"    

"Don't need 'em."    

"You mean you're going to sleep in your day clothes?" He asked, skeptical, and started to take a sip of his Fanta –    

"Nope. Figured I'd forego the PJ's this time around and just sleep el-natural."    

– but it went down the wrong way and he started coughing violently.    

"Drink it, don't breath it." Oakley giggled.     

Doyle wiped his chin with his sleeve. "Christ. You mean you're going to sleep _naked_?"    

"Sure. It's the country, after all." Oakley said. She came fully into the room and moved toward Doyle's desk. There were a few classic movie-posters on the wall behind it – mostly science fiction – and a crate of record albums on the floor by the turntable.    

Doyle watched her eyes sweep over a framed picture of a petite, round woman with distinctly Italian features. His mother. She was wearing wide spectacles with thick lenses that made her look like an apparition from the early 1940s.    

Oakley lingered on the picture for only a moment before moving on.    

Doyle had studiously thought ahead to hide the pile of recently-made drawings in the drawer of his desk. But for a panicked minute he couldn't remember whether he had locked the drawer or not.       

 _You did, it's fine, stay calm._       

Doyle sucked in a jittery breath and went back to unpacking.    

"Did you give my thanks to Charles for the lovely dinner?" He asked as he hung the final sweater up.     

"I sure did. You know, he had you pegged from the second he laid eyes on you." said Oakley, sounding a little too much like she was bragging.      

"Is that right?" asked Doyle. With his back turned to her, he didn't bother smiling.      

"Oh yeah. Identity issues, he said. And a mother complex."     

"Oh."     

"Just oh?"     

Doyle turned then to glare at her, contempt getting the better of him. "What should I say, Gerry? Is there a line you'd like to feed me?"     

"No, no, nothing like that." Oakley said, slightly defensive. "Guess I was just wondering if it bugged you, was all."     

Doyle felt anger swell in his chest. He took a moment to steady himself.      

"What about it should bother me, exactly?" He said coolly, back over with the suitcase.     

"Don't know. It's kind of hard, ugly almost, to know somebody can understand you without even liking you."     

Folding a pair of trousers, Doyle casually asked "Does Charles not like me, then?"     

"He doesn't _love_ you. Don't think he's made up his mind about you yet to be honest. I think – I think he thinks you're a little pompous."     

Doyle bristled. He wondered how she could be so blasé about it.      

"Well I think _he's_ a little pompous, so we have that in common at least." Doyle muttered, the edge of anger creeping back into his voice.     

Oakley gave an uncomfortable chuckle.      

"I think –" she explained defensively, "I think the thing with jealousy is–"   

"Who said I was jealous?" Doyle asked sharply.   

"Nobody." Said Oakley.  

Relaxing a little – "So . . . Charles is the jealous one?"   

"He's a little jealous, yes, but it's like I was saying. Jealousy can be like a dam, you know? Like in your head. It can kind of block a lot of the sensible thoughts from getting through."     

"Lots of emotions can do that, Gerry." said Doyle. He stopped folding and faced her completely. "Is he really, honestly jealous of me? Even after meeting me? Even after that little story you made up about my love-life?"     

She shrugged. "Sort of. I mean, it's not like he sees you as a threat or anything now, but still, you've got to try and look at it from his perspective. I think maybe he'd like to be the one taking me out of town right now for a weekend getaway. He hasn't got the time, though."     

Doyle felt a smug sense of pride come over him, but he was careful not to show it.     

"Let me ask you this, Gerry. Do you need him to like me? Does his disliking me affect your opinion of me in any way?"     

Oakley smiled at him sideways in a completely uncensored way and said "No, I like you just fine."     

"Then it doesn't really matter what Charles thinks of me, or what he thinks he knows about me, now does it." Doyle said, a little over-confidently. "And for the record, he hasn't got me that well pegged. He doesn't know what I _really_ am. Does he." And he gave her a surprisingly wolfish grin.      

Oakley laughed. "No, but then again he doesn't know that _I'm_ a wolf either. And _I'm_ sleeping with him."  

"Exactly." Doyle said, monotone.     

"Exactly." Oakley parroted back.     

A beat of silence.     

"So yeah. When's the last time you were back in Scotland anyway?" Oakley asked him, moving further into the room.     

"I go back every so often." Doyle said, attention back on the suitcase. "Once a year, usually. Back to Glasgow, just to keep it fresh in . . . . in my mind."     

Doyle trailed off, suddenly, keenly aware of how close Oakley had gotten to him. Her aroma was everywhere, suffocating him. Driving away his disdain for Charles. Making his stomach feel warm and his neck hot. He went to the window – taking deliberate care to be slow in his movements – and gently pushed the pane closed, hoping to trap as much of her lingering scent in his home as possible.     

At the same time, Oakley reached into her purse and withdrew a thin, leather belt.       

"Hey, almost forgot to show you. Look what I got." she said happily.     

Doyle came back to the bed feeling pleasantly drunk on her scent.   

"What's that?" He asked her a little breathlessly.     

"It's a dog collar. Borrowed it from work. Have one here for you, too."      

"Now why in the world would you bring me a dog collar?" Doyle questioned, going back to packing.     

"I'll show you." said Oakley, and she started to tie the collar around her neck. "We put them on, loose, like so. That way, after we change, if anybody sees us they'll wind up thinking we're dogs and leave us alone." she explained, sounding rather proud of her own practicality.      

Doyle was still fiddling with the zipper on his luggage. He gave Oakley a quick, noncommittal grunt, and Oakley un-did the belt and dropped it back into her purse.     

While Doyle finished packing, she set about exploring the rest of his room, rooting through the books on his bookshelf until she found one without a title. She flipped it open only to discover a host of old Polaroids. Worn and faded, a handful of them included Doyle as a younger man, complete with red hair, pierced ears, and an oversized blazer that was so quintessentially 80s Oakley was forced into a fit of obscene laughter by the mere sight of it.     

"Jeez, you had one hell of a fashion sense didn't you, scruff."     

Doyle realized that she was looking at the remnants of some truly tragic fashion choices.    

"The key word there being _had_." He said wryly. "I'd like to think I've transcended somewhat."     

He heard her gasp. "You had an earring?"     

"It was the 80s and I was on drugs. Of course I had an earring."     

"Hey, where's your kilt?"     

"I beg your pardon?"     

"Every self respecting Scotsman owns a kilt, right. So where's yours?"     

"Just because _you're_ a walking stereotype with your cigarettes and your cowboy hat, doesn't mean I am as well."     

"Point taken . . . Holy shit. You play guitar?”    

Doyle glanced over his shoulder and saw her holding one of the Polaroids up. He saw himself, strutting about like an indulged cockatoo, wearing a velvet jacket with intense panache and holding an electric guitar in the quintessential Rockstar pose.    

A twinge of shame struck Doyle, but it passed, and he said “Not for a very long time.”     

“You know, my dad taught me the banjo once.”     

“Did he really?”     

"Uh-huh," mumbled Oakley. She had gone back to flipping through the photos again.    

There were a number of Doyle in open necked shirts with a jaunty scarf. And one of him wearing French canvas desert shoes and a number of badges on his lapel, and yet another picture of him in a black, mushroom shaped beret.      

"Hey, there's a girl in this one." Said Oakley. "Ooh, who was she? Old flame?"    

Doyle turned again to check the photo Oakley was holding up.     

"She's the one who gave me the guitar." He replied, indifferent.    

"Where is she now?"    

"Honestly? I don't know." Doyle said.    

Oakley shrugged. "How come you have so many pictures of yourself?"     

"I'm a vain, vain man. Actually, my mother took most of them."     

"Heavy into scrapbooking?" Oakley said, shuffling through the remaining photos.    

"I think she wanted to chronicle the life of her only child."     

A burst of girlish laughter from Oakley.     

"Seriously? You were a comedian, too?" she sniggered.  

Doyle spun around and to his horror saw that she was holding a very old newspaper clipping. Before she could properly read it, he stepped hastily forward, snatched it out of her hands and shoved it into one of his dresser drawers.   

"Briefly. _Very_ briefly." He growled.   

Oakley's laughter melted into a gentle chuckle. "Aw, I wasn't trying to poke fun of you or anything, scruff."   

"No, of course you weren't. Never got any laughs, anyway." grumbled Doyle.   

Softly – "Bet you did."   

" _I_ did, yes. My jokes did not." Doyle confessed. He could feel the hot sting of humiliation creeping into his cheeks.   

Oakley smiled sweetly at him. "Well I think it's cool that you did stand up when you were young. Hell, you're probably the coolest person I know, come to think of it."   

Doyle hadn't expected that. He stared at her with newfound adoration.    

"Oh? Am I really?" He asked, light in tone but dying inside.   

"Sure." said Oakley. She started to flip through the pictures again. "I mean, just think about it. You're an artist, you're an ad-man, you're an actor, you own your own business, you play the guitar, and apparently you do stand up too."   

" _Did_. I _did_ stand up." He corrected, feeling bashful again.   

"Whoa – your _hair_. It's so long in this one. You look like that spores-and-molds guy from Ghostbusters."     

"I think it's time you put those away now."    

With a reluctant huff, Oakley put the photos back where she found them and joined Doyle by the bed.    

"You almost done?"    

"Almost. Oh, Gerry – it's just come to me. Do we need guns?" Doyle asked suddenly. He sincerely hoped they didn't. Hunting rifles weren't easily obtained without a license, and he had no idea where to buy them.     

Oakley shook her head. "Won't matter. They'd only be for show, anyway. We don't need them. Tell you what we _will_ need, though. Trash bags. We'll put a change of clothes in them, nail them to a tree or hide them in some bushes."  

"What for?"  

"Precaution. Always good to have a handy set of back-up clothes just in case the hunt turns sour."     

"Sour?"      

"Don't worry. It won't." Oakley assured him.     

Out of nowhere she reached out and tousled Doyle's hair affectionately. Startled by the contact, Doyle made an odd, squeaky little noise and ducked away, shakily combing his gray locks back into place.      

Oakley gave a disappointed sigh. “Man, why do you _do_ that? Why don't you like to touch me? You think you’re going to creep me out or something? Is that it? You think I’m going to get pissed off at you for it?”     

Doyle didn’t know what to say.    

"Look," Oakley began, "I know, you're being polite. I appreciate that, but this weekend isn’t about being polite. It’s about letting go. You hereby have my permission to just let it go already. I touch you, you touch me, no big deal. Okay?”   

"Okay."    

"Good."      

"I'm finished packing now, if you'd like to leave." Doyle offered gently. "You can have a cigarette while we walk to the station."     

"What station are we leaving from?"  

Doyle showed her the map he had printed the night before, indicating the long multi-colored line that stretched across it. The barcode for the ticket receipt was located just underneath.  

“All right, so we'll be taking the ten-fifteen train from King's Cross Station to Edinburgh –"   

Oakley raised her hand.    

"Do you have to show your passport when you cross into Scotland?" She asked him. "My friend Margie said I wouldn't need it, but I brought it just in case."   

Amused, Doyle said "No. You won't need it." He returned his attention to the map. "So, King's Cross Station to Edinburgh, then we're going to take a bus from Dunblane Railway Station, which will take us to Saunchie Road in Crieff, where we'll get a cab and carry on from there. We should arrive at Highland Perthshire at around seven-ish, provided nothing goes immensely wrong." He explained.   

Oakley whistled tightly. "Hell of a lot of road to cover, huh."    

"A journey for the ages.” Doyle said, folding the paper into his pocket.   

Before they left he stopped in the den and did a quick mental check to make sure he had everything he needed.  

 _Clothing? Yes. Toothbrush and toothpaste? Yes. Travel itinerary and ticket receipt? Yes. Cabin key for when you get there? Yes. Flat key for when you get back? Yes. Chapter book for the train ride? Yes. Sketchbook and pencils for when you get – hmm – antsy? Yes._   

 _Geraldine Oakley?_   

 _Somehow, amazingly – yes._   

On the way out he snatched up a pair of stray sunglasses from his key bowl and put them on. When they were outside on the walkway Oakley reached out and bopped the bridge of the glasses with her index finger.   

"Where'd you get those?"  

"Another planet." Doyle replied.  

Together they set off down the winding streets toward the underground.   

Doyle's heart raced ahead of him. Each pulse sent a thrilling jolt of panicked bliss up his spine. _This is really happening,_ his mind gibbered. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure it really was. For some reason, when he looked, he expected Oakley to be gone – vanished in a puff of white smoke. But she was there, trailing after him, looking beautifully flushed and windswept. The cigarette dangling from her perfect, full lips. She gazed back at him then with the same bright-eyed anticipation of a dog being that was being taken for its first-ever walk.    

"I feel like I've been asleep for decades." Oakley said between puffs of her cigarette. "I  feel like I'm so close to waking up now."   

"I know what you mean." Doyle replied.   

It took them less than ten minutes to reach Oxford Circus Station.   

Together they fled swiftly and silently down the wide stairwell into the cavernous mouth of the subsurface walkway and over to the self-service kiosks by the wall. Oakley waited next to Beck's colossal, colorful diagram of criss-crossing lines as Doyle faced one of the kiosks and bent to scan the printed receipt.  

Doyle listened to the sound of churning metal and whining electronics, and then the machine spat out two orange colored, business-card-sized pieces of paper. He handed one of them to Oakley.  

"Combined ticket?" She asked him.  

"That's right."  

"Groovy. How much do I owe you?"  

Doyle dismissed the question with a rough shake of his head.  

Oakley's eyes narrowed. Stepping very close to him, she asked again – "How much, _Ian?_ " – punctuating each word with a hard pause in-between.  

Doyle looked into her amber-brown eyes and said "You don't owe me a thing, Geraldine."  

Oakley studied his face for a long minute and then nodded in a decisive kind of way. "All right." She pocketed the ticket. "Going to hold you to that, though."  

"I will hold myself to that, thank you." Doyle said – a touch snide.  

On the move again, sidestepping a small sea of people, dashing through the turnstiles, riding the steep escalators down into the intricate maze of long, serpentine tunnels. The standing passengers kept to the right. Doyle and Oakley hurried past them, catching skimmed glances of the month-old show posters that lined the rounded walls below the shallow ceiling.  

The primal claustrophobic feeling of being trapped underground built the lower Doyle went. He did his best to ignore it.  

They reached the bottom and turned a sharp corner. All around them were the distant sounds of collective footfalls, and woven into that, a busker's soft melody, echoing dreamily off the tiled walls from somewhere unknown.  

Brisk walking, soon running, down and around winding corners and past bleak graffiti.   

London's underground network stretched from the heart of the city to the fringes of the countryside. It was a confusing, bustling mess of a place. A microcosm all its own. Perversely magical when it was empty, startlingly intimidating during rush-hour. The only other place in London – besides a cemetery – where people from all walks of life came together in a group.  

Doyle knew that the labyrinthine Tube experience could seem scary to some foreigners. For a brief second he worried Oakley would get lost if he didn't lead her along by hand. Then he remembered that, despite her accent, she had been living in London for a little over six years now. She was probably more adept at navigating the complex tunnels than he was – especially since she dealt with huge traveling crowds on a daily basis at Gatwick. Doyle guessed she had all sorts of tricks up her sleeve to avoid their impatient pushing and shoving.   

More running. Doyle in front, Oakley in his wake, both of them getting nudged and bumped by impatient commuters.   

"Which one do we want?" Oakley called out.  

"Victoria line towards Walthamstow Central." Doyle shouted back.   

Running still. Down a shorter flight of steps. Following the red painted signs. Waiting below, a mass of university students and traveling businessmen, sleek in their crisp suits and wing-tipped shoes.  

Doyle came onto the platform, his eyes darting frantically around – sucking in wheezy little panic breaths, everything rushed, everything frantic. Oakley, stuck to his hip, enjoying herself in an alert, energized kind of way.  

Seconds later they felt an exhilarating gust of hot wind blast up from the darkened tunnel. There was a glare of bright light, followed by a high-pitched roar as the train settled into place in front of them.  

Doyle watched as the doors opened with a swish. Suddenly there were dozens of riders flooding to the exit barriers. Quickly, Doyle pulled Oakley aside so that she wouldn't block them.   

At the same time a polite, mechanical voice rang over the intercom; " _Please_ _m_ _i_ _nd the gap._ "  

Into the cramped sardine can, doors shutting, and then Doyle and Oakley were squashed up against the tourists with their cameras and the Londoners with their faces in books and newspapers. Other commuters sat in the ragged seats around them, lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the warm carriage – dozing and drooling on the shoulders of complete strangers.  

A jolting dip, and then the train was speeding rapidly along again.   

Doyle pushed himself up against Oakley, as close as he could get in the tight space. A protective, almost parental scowl twisting up his nose and eyebrows.  

A few fast minutes like that – Oakley clinging to one of the iron poles by the door, Doyle stooping over her like a guardian-buzzard, one raised arm clinging to a straphanger, his nostrils full of a thousand different whirling smells. Oakley's scent foremost among them.   

He relished those rare moments when the train leaned into a hard turn and Oakley had to sway into him to keep her balance. _Opportunity curves_ , Doyle named them. Fate’s way of igniting those nearly-imperceptible instances of contact with Oakley.   

There was no talking on the train. Just the boisterous waterfall sound of air whipping around the carriage. Doyle wondered how it was on the subway trains of New York City. Did the Americans see the ride as a chance to chat with one another and make new friends? Or did the same, embarrassed silence hang heavily in the American air too? Perhaps there existed a universal, unspoken rule of silent sanctuary on all underground trains no matter where you went.  

Doyle listened as the train screeched and groaned around him. Before long the light, lyrical sound of the speaker-system rang out again.  

" _Next stop: St. Pancras station."_   

"That's us," Doyle said to Oakley.  

Off the train quick, up the steps and the escalators, past the barrier gates and back on the sidewalk again. Fresh air and daylight and Oakley with a new cigarette dangling from her lips.  

King's Cross station coming rapidly into view on Euston Road like the golden gates of Heaven.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**10.**

**SEPTEMBER - Last Quarter**

 

“I see her as a series of marvelous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire.”

― [Angela Carter](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/27500.Angela_Carter)

 

 

 

_[Saturday, September 5th. Late morning.]_

 

_[The terminal station King's Cross has been one of the most important railway stations in London since 1852, and is perhaps the most highly frequented public transport hub in London today. At the front of the building, white tree-like steel columns radiate from a tapered central funnel, and span out to form the criss-crossing vaulted roof structure. The accompanying, worn brown brickwork and steel lattice give the building a distinctly Victorian feel._

_The interior is a vast, Escheresque cavern, teeming with life. Shops and restaurants are located in rented spaces inserted in the structure, while ticket counters are accommodated in the historical Western Range building. Aluminum panels and glass cover the center and sides of the structure, allowing light to fall on the main hall and platforms. Below the glass, Ian Doyle and Geraldine Oakley creep quickly and quietly through the throng of pedestrians, going up the big stone steps now into the pale, towering building before them.]_

 

Doyle reached the main station hall feeling like a bundle of raw nerves. He was out of breath and trembling a little from all the running. His joints throbbed dully.  

“Hell of a workout,” Oakley huffed.  

Doyle was too winded to speak.  

A flighty giggle from Oakley. ”Can you believe we’re actually _doing_ this?”   

Doyle honestly couldn’t. The whole thing felt very surreal, like an out-of-body-experience. He began to think maybe it was.   

"I'm starving," Oakley said. "We got time for a snack?"  

Dumbly, Doyle looked past the rims of his sunglasses and down at his wrist-watch. He was surprised to see the hands still ticking.  

"We have time." He replied.  

"Groovy. Think I'll hit up that café over there. You want anything?"  

"No."  

"You sure? It'd be my treat."  

"I'm not hungry. Honestly."  

"Well I'm getting you something anyway. Can't stop me."  

Doyle watched her walk away. He felt dazed and funny inside. Butterflies danced in the pit of his stomach.   

For a while he listened to the soft, low rumbling sound of shunting trains and the ghostly echoes of the swelling crowd. He counted their footfalls as they tapped briskly across the sleek tile-floor. And when the adrenaline (and any other initial excess of energy from that morning) finally began to ware off, an intense, almost child-like glee overcame him.   

He was at King's Cross station, and Oakley was there with him. They were about to leave. He was on his way to paradise.  

Doyle started cackling to himself. Several onlookers paused to stand and watch him. One of them – a little boy – tugged on his mother's skirt and whispered "Is he drunk, mum?" The mother quickly shooed her son along towards the luggage trolleys. Doyle didn't notice. He had gone away momentarily, too caught up in self-congratulation to care how anybody else might perceive him.  

It was almost like he had gotten away with something. Like he was a master-thief that had succeeded in stealing the world's finest gem straight out from under the noses of at least a dozen burly security-guards. And even though he wasn't entirely in the clear yet, the fact that he had managed pull it off at all, to get this far with Oakley without fucking up, was something to be proud of.  

"What's the joke?"  

Doyle jumped. Oakley had reappeared behind him, carrying two full bags of junk food.   

"Nothing, nothing at all," he sniggered, feeling absurdly giddy.  

Oakley raised the bags up and showed Doyle their contents. "What do you want? I got it all. Crisps, candy bars, trail-mix, biscuits. Some drinks too. Water for me, got you a Fanta."   

She tossed him a bottle before he could protest.   

“You know, they serve food on the train as well." Doyle said, twisting the cap open.  

Oakley was too busy tearing into a foil-wrapped bag of beef jerky to respond.  

"Our train's just over there," Doyle said, pointing with his free hand. "Can you walk and eat?"  

Oakley spoke through a full mouth. "Can a wolf wag it's tail?"  

They wandered over, and Oakley positioned herself by the edge of the platform, squinting intently down at the far end of the tracks. Heat rippled off the metal rails, distorting the air in fanning waves. Doyle took a seat a little ways away from her on a dirty bench, gazing blankly up at the hazy gray sunlight filtering in through the cylindrical-glass roof. There was something about the way it brightened the main station hall – how it made everything look as though it had been shot in dreamy soft-focus – that Doyle found intensely captivating.  

"The train on it's way?" He heard Oakley ask.   

"Ought to be."  

"Not long now, buddy-boy."  

Doyle caught the smile in her words and felt another happy thrill of risk blossom in his stomach. He had booked them their own, private sleeper compartment for the train-ride up to Dunblane. The last time he had been alone with Oakley – away from the prying eyes of beautiful boyfriends and piddling restaurant patrons – had been during their trip into Kensal Green Cemetery. But even that had been outside, in a public space.          

On the train, there would be _real_ privacy. On the train, there would be a door to shut. And at the cabin, there would be many. Some of them would even have locks.  

Slowly, Doyle slipped his hand into his trouser pocket, groping for the spare cabin-key Hitsch had given him. Focused solely on the tiny slice of cold metal – his anchor in a tumultuous sea of delight – Doyle became surrounded by a clear electric peacefulness. He did not see the neighboring platform to his left, even though he was well within his field of vision. Nor did he hear the string of passengers disembarking. Not right away, at least. But then a young pair of twenty-somethings came off the train, and Doyle glimpsed them out of the corner of his eye. They looked like a couple. A couple that was having a bitter quarrel. Doyle could heard them arguing from the bench, and became suddenly sure that everyone else could as well. It seemed like they were talking loudly enough to draw attention from even the most indifferent of those waiting around them.  

Doyle followed them with his eyes, more annoyed than interested. Their little spat was escalating, and even though he was used to public displays of hostility, there was something about the tone of this one that was souring his happiness. He spent a few tense seconds watching the twenty-somethings bark and jab at each other, and then he turned away to stare uncomfortably at the floor.   

The couple continued their shrill shouting-session as they passed out of the concourse. Doyle did his best to tune them out until they were nothing more than inconvenient noise pollution. Then he glanced over at Oakley. She was still actively engaged in waiting for the train to show up. A flicker of his former happiness returned to him. Quietly, he curled his long fingers back around the key in his pocket and thought _She's mine, she's mine, she's mine today and tomorrow and the day after that, too._    

The thought made his heart scream against his ribs, but on the heels of it came another one.   

 _Three days. That's an awfully long time to be stuck in the same place with only one person, isn't it?_   

And then his own words, remembered from that morning –  

 _“Drown a cold, starve a flu, over-feed an obsession. You'll be with her for five days straight. By the time you get back here, you’ll not want to see her for a month. You won't even feel like sketching her, by God.”_   

Doyle's smile collapsed into an uncertain frown.  

It was true. He and Oakley would be together for five full days. Well, four at least. But they had never spent that much time together before. Just a few short hours every Wednesday night each week, with plenty of time in-between visits to recuperate from one another. 

Would Oakley be able to tolerate him for more than a few fast hours? For more than a day?   

All at once Doyle was struck by the overwhelming feeling that everything was about to go drastically, unavoidably tits-up. And why not? How often did fate or God or the universe or whatever he chose to call it actually intervene on his behalf? How regularly did he catch a break, especially when it came to women?  

 _Hardly ever_ , Doyle thought bitterly. 

No, a nice, problem-free holiday was simply too much to ask for. And a nice, problem-free holiday with _Oakley_ – now _that_ was out of the bloody question. There were simply too many variables to keep track of. Too many what-ifs to try and predict. More bad outcomes than good, according to Sod's Law, and Doyle's imagination (the treacherous killjoy that it was) seemed determined to acquaint him with each and every single one of them in vivid detail.   

To begin with, Oakley wasn’t expecting a sleeper compartment. What if she got upset? What if she thought he was trying to be sneaky with her?  She could get seriously offended. She might even turn around and walk back out of the train station.  

Or worse. What if they made it all the way to the cabin, only for Oakley to realize she was stuck in a remote, isolated place with Doyle?  

Doyle who was boring. Doyle who was shy. Doyle who was a shadow of the man he used to be and nothing like the man she loved.  

Even worse than that – what if Oakley enjoyed herself at first, but halfway through their little woodland holiday, Doyle let his conduct slip somehow and she developed a sudden distrust of him? A vague fear or repugnance that would make her sever all ties with him once they returned to the city?    

But perhaps worst of all – what if Doyle did nothing wrong whatsoever? What if he was the perfect gentleman? Attentive and caring and entertaining, positively terrific company the whole time, and Oakley simply decided she no longer liked him? Simple as that?  

What if she wrote him off once the weekend finished, in that terrible, apathetic sort of way some women did when they grew tired of a man?  

 _“How did you like your holiday, Geraldine?”_   

In that awful, feminine neutral tone that cut some men like a blade – _“Oh, you know, it was okay. Not great, not awful, just okay._ You’re _just okay, Ian. And we all know there's no use in hanging out with someone who’s just okay, am I right? So goodbye forever, you dull, tedious waste of space. I'm never talking to you again. Thanks for the crummy time._ _Hope you die like you lived_ _. Painfully boringly slow._ _”_   

Doyle winced. The trip would give him the perfect chance to get good and sick of her. And it would give her the perfect chance to get good and sick of him as well.    

In that instant of startling realization, Doyle ceased to be deliriously happy, and became obsessed by doubt.  

From miles outside the suffocation of his own mind, Oakley asked him what was wrong. Startled out of the indifference he had been struggling to maintain, Doyle whipped his head up to see Oakley standing in front of the bench.   

“Nothing,” he said, astonished by how easily the lie came out.  

Oakley eyed him with muted suspicion.   

“Bullshit.” she said bluntly. She sat down on the bench, warm and solid beside him. “Talk to me. You forget to pack something?”  

“No, that isn’t it.” Doyle said. 

“You thinking this is a bad idea all of a sudden?”  

Her occasional sharp insights never failed to marvel him.  

“Not exactly.” Doyle said, still trying to feign nonchalance.   

"You want to call it off?" Asked Oakley.  

Doyle sensed from her tone that the offer was meant to be compassionate, not placating.    

“No." He replied sullenly. "It's only, that is, I suppose I was just wondering if my novelty’s worn off at all. I wouldn’t want to get on your nerves when we get up there.”  

“Don’t worry. You won’t.” Then, playfully – “Do _I_ get on _your_ nerves at all, scruff?”  

Doyle shook his head.  

“Damn. Gonna have to try harder, then, huh.”   

Doyle did hid best to return Oakley's smile, but there was still a great deal bothering him.   

“Gerry, I hope you don’t mind, but I thought it might be more relaxing to, uh, that is – I got us a sleeper. Is that alright with you?”  

“Sure. Wasn’t too expensive was it?"  

The tickets had cost him roughly £400, altogether.   

“No,” Doyle lied. “Not at all.”   

Oakley gave him another comforting smile, and Doyle felt slightly, cautiously better.   

They spent the next few minutes sitting on the bench, listening to the pigeons in the rafters coo. Doyle wasn't sure he liked how much the time was stretching. He wondered if this was the calm before the storm. The chilling silence before the guillotine-blade came plummeting down across his neck.   

Doyle began to have trouble sitting still. He crossed and uncrossed his arms. Slumped and straitened on the bench. His leg started to jiggle anxiously.  

“Cool it.” Oakley said.  

Doyle made something he hoped looked like an apologetic smile – “Sorry, nervous traveler,” – but she wasn’t buying it.   

“What's there to be nervous about? You’ve been back to Scotland a bunch of times, haven't you?”  

“It's not going back, exactly. I really couldn't tell you what it is.”  

His leg went on jiggling. It was shaking the bench.   

“You should get up.” Oakley suggested. “Convert that –" She gestured to his leg, "–into exercise. Do something constructive with it. Walk around, man.”  

“And go where? There's no more sidewalk, no more underground, nothing good left to –" 

 _A_ _nticipate,_ he wanted to add, but clamped his mouth shut just in time.  

“Anxiety stems from regrets of the past and fears of the future.” Oakley explained. She sounded like she was quoting from one of Weller's fancy psychology books. “Focus on the now, my man. Be mindful of the present.”   

“How?”  

“Walk around."  

"How _else_?"  

"Beats the shit out of me.” Oakley said. "I could hit you. Pain would bring you into the moment." 

"That's dreadfully kind of you, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass." He sneered. 

"How about a cigarette?" 

"No, thank you." 

"The smell will help take your mind off stuff." 

"I don't smoke." 

"Try smelling for something else, then." 

"Can't. Too much going on." 

There was. Doyle could smell everything at once. He could smell the rank smell of old shoes ripe with dried sweat. He could smell the rubbish bins by the exits, filled to the brim with dry paper and scraps of half-eaten food. He could smell the condiments sitting on the cafe tables nearby. Salt and vinegar and tangy ketchup. He could smell the strong bitter smell of smoky water – fresh tea, like bergamot with a sharp citrusy edge – and the low sweetness of the frothy milk mixed into it. He could smell the burnt smell of train brakes, of oil and fumes. Cold stone with a touch of dampness. Foul pigeon droppings from above. Moldy woodwork. Mildewy steam. Even the acrid smell of urine from the restrooms around the corner.  

"Try focusing on just one thing." Oakley instructed.  

Doyle’s nose centered at once on a faint trace of something musky and delicious. Oakley’s scent. He shut his eyes and took in a few quick whiffs, savoring the moist, earthy tones. They reminded him of an autumn day after a rainstorm. Cool and refreshing, but also invigorating at the same time.  

Doyle groaned. 

"Find something good?" Oakley asked him. 

Doyle's eyes popped open.  

"No," he said quickly.  

His leg was still doing it's obnoxious jiggle-dance in front of them. Oakley made a move to smack it and he hastily shyed away from her. 

"Take a walk already." Oakley ordered. 

"No. I have a better idea." Said Doyle.   

Mechanically he knelt on the floor, opened his suitcase part-way, and dug around until he found his sketchbook. He pulled it out, along with a pen, and started sketching the concourse.   

Expressing some mild interest in the sketch, Oakley said “Feeling inspired?”     

Doyle fumbled for a moment with his pen.  “Can’t do something constructive. _Can_ do something creative.”    

Proudly – “Atta boy. Want to draw me after?”    

“Tempting. But we may not have time.” Doyle muttered absently.   

Amazingly enough, he was already starting to fall into the zone. That focused, grey void where basic sensory input and the conscious processes that dealt with such things as when he had last eaten, or whether or not Oakley actually liked him, were pushed aside to make way for creative thinking.  

Slowly, over a period of six or seven minutes, the rest of the train station melted away, it’s many smells fading, it's many noises clotting into a single, mind-made tinnitus. Doyle floated calmly in the after-void, with his pen still in hand, the paper still underneath it. He was sketching fast, not really aware of anything other than how the shadows fell across the slant of the archway by the tracks. The white sculptural structure there was bold, and delicate. Like Oakley, and like Oakley, it was difficult to capture with just a few rough pen-strokes. Doyle found he was enjoying the challenge, though. Like this, he could achieve a kind of tranquility by being too preoccupied to worry.   

It didn't take long to finish the sketch. When Doyle was done he shut his sketchbook, and looked up in time to hear the jolting blare of the train horn. Stifling a tiny yelp of surprise, Doyle jumped to his feet, looked down the tracks, and saw the train fast approaching the long cement island. He gripped his ticket tightly in one hand, and the sketchbook in the other.  

Out of nowhere the worry returned, and he thought _You could back out now._ _Fake a stomach cramp, a seizure, whatever it takes. Go away and let her have the cabin for herself. She doesn't really want to teach you how to hunt. She could probably care less._   

Without thinking Doyle pulled the cabin key out of his pocket and offered it to Oakley.  

“What’s that?” Oakley said, regarding the key with more concern than curiosity.  

Doyle spoke over the noise of the coming train. “It’s the key. To the cabin, I mean. I – I don’t have to come with you, you know. If you'd prefer to go alone, be by yourself for a while, I understand entirely.”   

Oakley nudged him in the rib with her elbow. “Now you _are_ starting to get on my nerves. Cut it out.”    

Doyle held his breath as the train slid to a crawl, and then came to a smooth stop in front of them. Bored faces peered out through the windows. Weirdly phantomish behind the glass.  

Ticket in hand, Doyle reluctantly climbed aboard.  

 

* * *

 

The inside of the car was comfortably warm. Doyle ushered Oakley down the aisle and through the gap between cars. They made their way carefully towards the caboose, stropping two cars short, where the single seats and four-cross tables had been replaced with compartment doors. A bull-faced conductor waited at the front of the car to inspect their tickets.   

"Dunblane?" He grunted.  

"That's right." Oakley said.  

The conductor grunted again and showed them to their private compartment.  

The one Doyle had ordered was, in actuality, a 2-berth comfort couchette compartment in daytime mode. It had wall-to-wall carpet, a mirror on the back of the door, three individual shaver sockets, bottled drinking water, a working washbasin, and a digital thermostat that provided full air-conditioning control. According to the conductor, steward service was available at the ring of a bell.  

Doyle slipped his sketchbook into the front pocket of his jacket and stepped into the sleeper with Oakley. Overall the compartment was cramped, but not uncomfortable. For daytime journeys, the two side-beds folded away to form a private sitting room with adjacent sofas. Twin luggage racks hung above the window and in the big recess above the door projecting over the corridor ceiling.    

Doyle stuck his suitcase on one of the overhead racks and watched Oakley shut the door behind him. He heard the lock click home, and thought –  

 _Here we are. Together at last._   

He compelled himself to sit down somewhere. Oakley took a seat opposite him by the window. She had barely finished adjusting herself when the train lurched into motion, almost as if it was aware that they was ready to depart. Doyle stared out the window, watching as the station platform slid away.   

"This is nuts." Oakley said. She was beaming. "This is totally crazy. We're on our mother fucking way, my man! Woo-hoo!"  

Doyle smiled distantly at her from the adjacent seat.   

Together they watched London glitter in the far distance. High-rises and skyscrapers grew smaller and more suburban as the train sped towards the city’s boundaries until, finally, the last of the distinctly-urban buildings disappeared beyond the receding horizon, and the scenery transitioned more fully into the rolling hills of the country.  

Over time the compartment became suffused with Oakley's distinctive, slightly-woodsy bouquet. It warmed Doyle's innards and made him think of that long tucked away part of himself. The wolf in him revealed in the smell. Adored it. Doyle hoped it wouldn't fade – that he and the wolf didn’t wind up growing accustomed to it. He wanted Oakley to remain fresh in his mind forever.    

"Gerry, would you like me to read you something now?" Doyle put forward.  

Oakley, who had been enraptured by the rolling landscape, gave him a dazed look and said "Huh? Oh. Sure, that sounds nice."   

Doyle stood up, pulled his suitcase down from the rack above his head, and retrieved the book he had brought along _._ When he was settled in his seat again he read the title aloud.  

"Alice Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll." He glanced up and saw Oakley out of her seat and moving towards him. “What are you doing?” he sputtered.   

“Want to come sit with you." she answered plainly.   

Doyle nearly choked on his own breath.   

"Why?" he said, quickly and sharply enough to make her pause.   

“I don't know. I guess I wanted to see the pictures. You got a problem with that?"   

“No. No, of course not.” Doyle squeaked. He cleared his throat, gave her an inviting half-smile, and called up enough courage to stiffly pat the neighboring cushion.  

Reassured, Oakley crossed the rest of the way over to him, sat down – closer than she had been on the train station bench, closer than she had been during the opportunity curves in the tube – and nestled up against his shoulder, grinning like a carefree child.  

 _That’s because she IS a child_ , Doyle reminded himself with an internal sigh.  

Then their hips touched, and his eyes dipped closed involuntarily.  

“Well?” Oakley said. He could tell by her tone that she was growing slightly impatient. “Going to keep going or what?”  

Elated almost to the point of physical pain, Doyle began to read from the small hardcover copy of _Alice Through the Looking Glass_. The words came out a little shaky at first, but eventually he got a rhythm down. Then Oakley snuggled closer ( _How is that even bloody possible!_ ) and started playing with the buttons of his jacket.  

“Pay attention, please,” Doyle said, a little more gravely than he meant to.  

Oakley clicked her tongue at him and wound her hands around his arm.   

Doyle tipped his head back and groaned. _God, she’s trying to kill me._ He went back to reading.  

Outside, the gray-green hills rolled idly by.   

Doyle made it all the way to the Red Queen before Oakley threw back her head and yawned. The sight was wonderfully sensual. Doyle tried to keep reading.  

“Hey, you just read that sentence.” Oakley complained in a drowsy slur.  

Doyle stared at the book in his hands. “Really? Did I?”   

Oakley stifled another yawn. “Uh-huh.”  

“Oh.” He hadn’t been paying attention. “If you say so.”  

More reading. More scenery. Herds of sheep and clumps of country trees, beautifully scenic in their simplicity.  

At the break between chapters, Doyle noticed that Oakley's faint breathing had adopted the rhythm of sleep. It took him a further minute to realize that she was dosing now – _actually_ dosing on _his_ arm.     
He stared down at her, wide-eyed, unable to believe what he was seeing.  

Geraldine Oakley, limp in her peaceful repose, her dark eyelashes heavy on her porcelain cheeks, her red lips parted slightly in an endearing sleep-smile.  

Doyle sucked in a ragged breath. He had never seen Oakley like that before. He had seen her upset and depressed and exhausted and angry and jonsing for her nicotine fix, but Oakley asleep was something new and special. She looked so sweet and comfortable and unguarded. The mere sight of it made Doyle’s cock jump against his leg.  

Quickly, he returned to the book and tried to keep reading, but the words now lacked their previous appeal.  

Doyle considered fumbling for his sketchbook instead, thinking that he could perhaps sketch Oakley while she slept, and relieve some of the tension that way. But in the end he decided against it. Not only would it be a breach of conduct to sketch Oakley while she was at her most vulnerable, Doyle also doubted he would be able to get his sketchbook and pen out of his front pocket without waking her. And if he woke her now, there was a very good chance it would put her off the idea of falling asleep on him again.  

Just then a devious little voice spoke up – 

 _Enjoy yourself, mate, she’ll never know_ _._   

– and Doyle was left wondering what would happen if he wound his arm around Oakley’s waist and drew her in for a kiss. Nothing intense or brutal, of course. Nothing overly passionate. Just a respectful little peck on the lips. Something to show her how much he admired her beauty. Not even really a kiss at all, but a compliment in the form of mouths-touching-mouths. A harmless gesture of friendship and reverence. A proper commencing of their holiday. A celebration.  

Surely, Oakley wouldn’t complain.  

Surely, she would embrace him back. Return the compliment in kind. Celebrate along with him.  

 _You could do her one better, mate,_ suggested the devious little voice. _You could stroke her awake. Get her off. Give her a good dream._   

Doyle’s eyes trailed down Oakley's front to the little V between her folded legs. It was shocking how easy it would have been for him to hike up her skirt – one handed, even – and peel aside her knickers. Was she even _wearing_ knickers? Doyle pictured her bare beneath the dress and shivered.  

 _Go on then. She’d love you for it_ , said the voice. _Maybe even thank you for it. Who knows the last time that pencil pusher she’s with got her properly wet._   

Doyle bunched his long, calloused fingers into trembling fists. The thought of doing something so scandalous to Oakley ( _with Oakley?_ ) made him feel both dizzy and alive.   

What had Oakley told him before as they left his flat? Something about having her permission to just let it go and touch her, wasn't it? But she hadn't meant for him to interpret it that way. Had she?  

Before Doyle could stop himself, a slew of sad, hopeful observations crossed his mind.  

 _That's certainly a risque outfit she decided to wear today. Nothing but leg. You don't suppose that's indicative of something?_  

 _Come to think of it,_ _she_ did _stand awfully close to me in the bedroom while I was packing. And on the tube, as well._   

 _And all that time spent looking at my photographs. Fawning over the young-me. Telling me how talented  I am._   

Doyle blinked. _Had_ Oakley been flirting with him? Had he simply failed to notice? Had she been trying to tell him that she secretly wanted something more out of their little forest retreat?  

Doyle considered patting Oakley gently awake to ask her, and tried to imagine what she might say.   

"You're grasping at some mighty fine straws there, mister." Or maybe, "Want a magic lamp to go with all that wishful thinking?"  

Doyle shook his head to clear it. He couldn't afford to daydream now. Daydreaming lead to carelessness, and carelessness led to misunderstandings. He had to stay sharp. But the train was still rocking. And Oakley was still pressed up against him. Bare legs invitingly close.   

On a whim Doyle stole a furtive glance down the devilishly low neckline of her dress. His conscience pounced on him.   

 _Disgusting! Outlandish! Fiendish! You dirty old pervert! You ugly scoundrel creep!_  

Doyle jerked his head away in repulsion and shut the book he was holding with a loud slap. He checked his watch. There were at least three and a half hours of train-ride remaining. He dropped his wrist and swallowed thickly. Three and a half hours with Oakley's frail frame slumped against his throbbing side. Three and a half hours of exquisite torture. It would be a miracle if he lasted one hour – but three?  

Meanwhile, the rocking of the train was shaking Oakley gently against him, forcing him to endure the ivory-smooth, sliding sensation of her leg and breasts.   

His entire body grew tense and hot.   

The devious voice again; _Go on, touch her. You know you want to._   

“No. She’s asleep,” he whispered hoarsely to himself.  

 _What makes you think she’ll wake up? Bet you she’s a deeeeep sleeper. So go on already. Be sneaky for once and touch her. Hell, that's why you got the sleeper in the first place, isn't it?_  

Doyle hung his guilty head.   

That awful, persistent voice; _Go on. Touch her._  

“I can’t.” Doyle moaned, feeling desperately greedy. “I _can'_ t. She trusts me.”  

 _Bollocks_ _. No one’s that_ _stupid_ _. She knows_ exactly _what she's doing. She fell asleep like this on purpose. It was a call to action, mate. She_ wants _you to._   

And that was enough to convince him. 

Doyle licked his lips and set the book aside. With all the careful hesitancy of a man diffusing a bomb, his left hand came to rest on Oakley's soft thigh, just above the knee. The fabric of her dress was warm to the touch. He could feel the heat emanating from the smooth skin just beneath it. Burning the underside of his hand. Sending little jolts of pleasure throughout his body.  

His conscience screamed at him; _Murder! Rape! The scoundrel strikes again!_   

Doyle squeezed his eyes shut and tried to defend himself.  

 _"_ There's nowhere else to put my bloody hand, now is there." He justified.  

His conscience was mercifully quiet.   

There was a shallow lull in the journey, filled with some landscape. None of it interesting enough to distract.   

Eventually Doyle’s gazed returned to Oakley, lingering discreetly on the swan-like curve over her neck. He was dimly aware that he was gasping and gulping up every shaky, scent-tinged breath as though some part of him expected her to suddenly evaporate and take all the air in the compartment along with her.    

And his hand was still on her leg. Beautiful, hot, tingling. Carefully – oh so carefully – he began to slide his hand higher. Inching toward –  

A light jostling of the train, and Doyle felt Oakley stir beneath him.  

He froze, his heart in his mouth.   

Seconds passed. Tiny beads of sweat collected on Doyle's pale forehead. His mind screamed at him to retract his hand before she could rouse fully and catch him ( _Doing what?_ _Copping a feel_ _?_ _Groping her_ _? Oh, god, what do I do? What do I DO? Admit it? Apologize? Feign ignorance and innocence and pray she doesn’t throw me off the train like a fucking used tissue?_ ), but he was too petrified to do anything other than blink.  

Finally, after what felt like a millennia of breathless waiting, Oakley gave a gentle grunt, and relaxed back into sleep.  

Doyle let out a shaky sigh and checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes had passed. Beside him, Oakley let out a pleasant little whimper, and he felt her rub her cheek against his shoulder. Doyle’s eyelids fluttered closed and a guttural hiss slipped out of him. He squeezed her leg gently and said “Fucking hell. You’re determined to make me into a right bastard, aren’t you.”  

Another whimper from Oakley. Still asleep on his arm.   

All at once he felt like a miserable, lecherous low-life.  

"No," he decided. "She deserves better than that."  

Slowly, painfully, Doyle forced himself to remove his hand from Oakley’s leg, and although it instantly itched to return, he could not bring himself to let it. He spent the remainder of the train ride with both hands tucked firmly between his knees, looking like a penalized school boy. 

Suspended between his longing for Oakley and his respect for her.


	11. Chapter 11

**11.**

**SEPTEMBER - Last Quarter**

 

“There is no better way to know us t han as two wolves, come separately to a wood.”

―  [ Ted Hughes ](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/996.Ted_Hughes)

 

 

 

_[Saturday, September 5th. Late afternoon.]_

 

_[_ _Edinburgh Waverley railway station, often simply referred to as Waverley, or as Edinburgh, sits between the Old Town and the New Town, partially obstructed from the West by a pair of tawdry-looking bars. Unlike Kings Cross in London, the station is not expressed. Its roof floats beneath the arches of the connecting North Bridge, and the Waverley Bridge, where the rail tracks emerge to run by the Victorian Princes Street Gardens._    

_On the tracks now, waiting for a second set of cars to attach,_ _Ian Doyle sits in silence on the train, delirious with self-reproach. Tight with embarrassment._    

_A handful of passengers board and take their seats, and then the doors slide shut. The train jerks into motion. Speeding on to_ _Dunblane_ _._    

_Doyle stares listlessly out the window. He is evaluating the costs and benefits of truths and untruths as_ _Geraldine Oakley rests her head on his arm. Angelic in her repose, she mewls and snuggles closer, pressing her face flush with the_ _tweed_ _of his upper arm._ _His patience threatens to shatter. Outside, the grey trees whiz by the window.]_     

   

Oakley was still curled up next to Doyle when the train finally pulled into Dunblane Station. Doyle watched her come awake in a light flutter of eyelashes **,** glance blearily around, and mumble a loose “Humm?”   

Doyle’s gravelly brouge coaxed her out of her stupor. “Wake up. We’re here. We've arrived.”        

Oakley nodded and kicked out her legs in an easy stretch.    

Doyle’s eyes raked over her involuntarily. He felt his offending hand twitch between his knees, and put some distance between them on the seat.     

Oakley finished stretching with a gentle “Ah” (drawing out the word in a soft, almost sexual exhalation of breath) and struggled to sit up. “Was I out for very long?”   

Doyle slipped his sunglasses off and clipped them to his pocket.    

“Nearly two hours.” he remarked stiffly.      

Oakley smiled back at him in a contented sort of way that made him think of orgasmic afterglows.      

“We need to get off now.” He breathed. “I mean, we need to get off the train. Disembark. That's the word for it.”    

Oakley nodded again. Her eyes fell on the copy of _Alice Through the Looking Glass_ that was laying on the seat by Doyle's thigh. Wordlessly, she leaned across his lap to grab it, and he felt her chest graze his leg. The touch stole his breath and sent most of his blood shooting straight to his cock. For a fast moment he teetered on the edge of saying something dangerously intimate to her.      

_So attractive. You're so obscenely attractive. God I just want to swallow you whole–_     

He clamped his tongue between his teeth and rushed off the seat to pull his suitcase down.       

"Up, up, up!" He prodded frantically, avoiding her eyes. "We're on a tight schedule, remember?"       

Oakley stood lazily and yawned.       

"Lay off me, scruff. I'm still in Wonderland over here," she said with a twangy whine.       

Doyle smiled despite himself and yanked the book out of her hand. He slipped it into his suitcase, secretly chuffed that she had bothered to pay attention, and brushed past her.      

“Little like catching a connecting flight, isn’t it,” Oakley commented as they made their way across the platform and down a steep set of stairs. She had her purse slung over her shoulder, and the half-empty bag of junk food in her opposite hand.      

“If you say so.” Doyle muttered absently.        

A hot, uncomfortable itch was settling on the back of his neck. Guilt niggled him.   

In all his filthy desperation he had actually considered fondling his best – if not _only_ – friend while she slept. Now the arousal was wearing off, and for the first time Doyle saw a stark and bitter side to his infatuation. A kind of vile aftertaste that made him question whether or not he was becoming too obsessed for his own good.      

Before they left the train station, Oakley excused herself to visit the restrooms. Doyle felt pierced and lonesome standing by the vending machines without her.   

At the same time, her absence gave him a chance to reflect.   

He had demonstrated an enormous amount of self-restraint on the train. He was proud of that – but the fact that he had even _needed_ to restrain himself in the first place appalled him. The goal of the trip was not to harass his friend, but to help her.    

He had become careless and stupid on the train, and now he would have to redeem himself. Otherwise, the guilt would suffocate him.   

“Gerry, would you like something? Anything? Something expensive, like a Scottish souvenir?” he offered when she finally came back out of the restroom.    

He flicked his head away before she could catch him, purposefully training his eyes on the small gift shop behind her. The shelves in the window were full of predominantly tacky things. Scottish flags. Teddy bears with bagpipes and kilts. Miniature red-porcelain phone booths.    

“No, I’m good,” said Oakley. “I’ve got too much expensive junk at home already.”   

“Are you sure?” There was a tremble of remorse in his voice. “I’ll get you anything you want. Anything at all. Just name it.”   

She gave him a tender, melting look. “You know, you’re going to give me a cavity, acting so sweet.”   

“Please.” Doyle said. He forced his eyes to meet hers. “I want you to remember this. I want to get you something to – to commemorate it. Please let me.”   

“Weeeell, if you insist. But not here. When we get to where we’re going, I’ll let you splurge on me then, okay?”   

He brightened slightly. “Okay.”   

Outside, the sky was gun-metal gray.    

A crowd of fifteen travelers waited for the bus on the street corner in front of the train station. Up the street, a scattering of elderly women with portable trollies cruised the small markets and shops. Stout in their plaid skirts and wool sweaters. Some of the merchants were already starting to pack it in for the day, and the women were scattering to snatch up the remaining fruit.    

Standing at the bus stop, Oakley set the bag of junk food down, stuck a cigarette between her teeth and lit it with fluid grace. Doyle sidled next to her, close but not too close. She took a long drag and “So how you holding up, scruff?” drifted out of her mouth along with the smoke.     

“Fine, fine,” he replied comfortably. It wasn’t true. He was trapped in a perfect storm of shame and self-loathing.    

He deliberated telling Oakley about what had almost happened on the train, but ultimately decided against it. She looked so relaxed now. So comfortable with him. Telling her would spoil that comfort and tarnish what had already been achieved with her.      

_Best to let the sleeping wolf lie._   

Oakley thumbed a piece of hair out of her eyes and drew another puff off the cigarette.    

“Air’s different here.” she said off-handedly. “Smells fresher. Even through this–” Holding up the cigarette, “I can smell it.”   

“Welcome to Scotland.” said Doyle.   

The smoke smiled along with her. “Thanks for bringing me.”   

Doyle felt a wave of refreshingly innocent affection creep out of him for Oakley. Refreshing in that there was no reproachful aspect to it – until the car sped by, kicking up a gust of wind that sent the hem of Oakley’s dress flapping in a surreal parody of Marilyn Monroe. Doyle caught a flash of her supple, pale thigh, and his mouth became a desert.    

Casually, as though it didn’t really matter, Oakley twisted to pat her dress back down, giving Doyle a staggering view of her backside. Desire stirred again in him, and then more shame. Without thinking he bent to retrieve the bottle of Fanta from his bag and drank from it for nearly a minute.    

_I swear, I swear._    

With his eyes pinched shut, gulping greedily –   

_I swear, I swear._    

He would be a gentleman, and when they got to Highland Perthshire he would buy her an apology present. A dozen apology presents. He would find her a sculpt of Romulus and Remus, suckling on the teet of the mother wolf. The Madonna Wolf. A golden statue big enough to make the trinkets Weller had given her look like cheap and dirty plastic.   

“Thirsty?" asked Oakley with an upbeat smirk.     

Doyle wasn’t just thirsty – he was parched, in more ways than one. He hoped to God she couldn't read it on him.    

The bottle came away from his mouth with a slick _pop_ and he said "I've not had anything to drink in the past three hours. I couldn't get to it because _someone_ fell asleep on me."   

He brought the bottle back to his mouth–      

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Oakley uttered smugly. “Not my fault you make a good pillow.”   

He groaned around the bottle.   

“Next time just ask me to move.” she told him.      

Doyle forced himself to take one last swallow ( _thirst quenched, desire drowned_ ), and stored what was left back in his suitcase.    

Coming down the road ahead of them now was a large, sleek silver shape. A posh, roomy coach designed to run the longer-distance road trips. It pulled up to the curb with a thin whistle, and the crowd reassembled by its doors. Oakley stubbed out her cigarette and joined them.        

The cushioned seats were arranged into rows of three. After presenting her ticket to the driver, Oakley found an empty row towards the front and slid across to the window-seat with her purse resting on her lap. Doyle hurried down the aisle after her, struggled with placing his suitcase into the overhead net for a second, and then tucked himself into the seat beside her – remembering to check that the arm-rest was wedged safely between their neighboring hips.     

They were rolling before the doors folded shut, out into the overcast afternoon.    

The inside of the coach was well maintained and clean. The upholstery had that familiar, virginal new-car smell, and the rug that ran along the aisle had been recently vacuumed.    

Doyle’s nostrils filled with detergent and diesel. Leaning wearily into the headrest, he sniffed for Oakley (that fortifying smell of tobacco and strong soap), and she once again became the burning center of his orbit. They turned a corner and his mind proposed a number of scenarios. Pull her into his arms and kiss her thoroughly. Shove her roughly against the seat. Hike up the base of her dress and buck into her.   

He quashed each thought as he had it, and paid his silent pennants by giving her full use of the armrest, offering to let her use his coat as a pillow in case she felt like nodding off again, and asking her if she wanted to hear more of _Alice_ – even though the idea of reading in front of the other passengers bothered him greatly.     

“I’m alright for now.” Oakley told him, rummaging briefly through the junk food bag for a candy bar. She pulled out a Curly Wurly and started in on it.       

A lull of quiet came and went.   

”You know, a famous love song was written here.” Doyle said conversationally. “ _Jessie, the Flower o'_ _Dunblane_ _._ ”   

That piqued her interest.   

“Oh yeah?” she said, crumpling the empty Curly Wurly wrapper in her hand and stuffing it back into the bag.  

"Aye, it was written by the poet Robert Tannahill, back in the 1800s.” Doyle said, thickening his accent for emphasis.   

“Neat. Who’d he write it for?”   

“Jessie, of course.”   

“Well, _yeah_ , but who was Jessie?”   

“A weaver in Paisley. She was also his muse.”    

“Muse, huh? Have you got a muse?”    

Growing uncomfortable – “Yes. I have a muse.”   

“Really? Who is she?”   

Somewhere at the bottom of his dark turmoil Doyle felt the guilt churn and writhe unpleasantly inside him.    

“No comment,” was the deadpan reply.   

Oakley gave a dubious snort. “Uh-huh. Sure.” Then, slyly, “So this Jessie song – you going to sing it to me?”   

Her eyes seemed to sparkle at this entrancing possibility.   

“No.” Doyle said.   

“Aw, come on. I bet you know all the w–“   

He cut her off with another sharp "No”, and saw her expression blank into one of indifference.   

The bus rattled over some railroad tracks.   

On their left, a narrow river flowed by, oily-black beneath the somber clouds. Oakley pointed with her slender chin at the river, and Doyle informed her that she was looking at the Allan Water. It’s body fell steeply from the hills to the north, and passed into the larger River Forth which, Doyle told her, became the Firth of Forth on which sat Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital.     

The bus drove parallel with the river for a short stretch, past a dozen or so estates lining the banks, past old mills that had been built some two-hundred years ago. Then the bus turned on to a large roundabout and re-directed towards the A9, heading north.       

“How long from here?” Oakley inquired.     

“About an hour. Depending on the traffic, of course.” said Doyle.    

The bus dropped off the A9 at Milton thirty minutes later to refuel, and continued from there on a rural road bordered on both sides by a tan-green quilt of farmland. Oakley made a show of counting every sheep she saw, and Doyle looked her over whenever her face was turned to the window. He appreciated both the scenery and the way her hair shined in the grim gray-sunlight.    

At one point, she broke from counting sheep and asked him how it felt to be back in the old-country.      

"It's all the old-country." Doyle replied flatly.      

Oakley gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “Awe, you know what I mean, scruff.”     

Doyle searched himself for a truthful answer and realized he didn't care. Returning to Scotland had been the furthest thing from his mind when he'd come up with the idea of taking the trip.      

"Honestly, it doesn't really feel any sort of way," he told her.     

"Really? Huh.”  

She went back to counting sheep.       

Doyle read to himself for a while from the _Alice_ book. It wasn’t long before he felt her eyes on him again.       

“We passing through your hometown at all?” she questioned. “You could show me where you grew up.”      

“I grew up in London, remember.”     

"I meant where you were born."    

“Glasgow? We've passed it. Ages ago, now.”      

"Oh," Oakley said, sounding disappointed. "I just thought . . . I don't know. It'd be nice to learn some more about you. It was nice before, looking at your pictures. Seeing baby-Ian.”   

“Baby-Ian? Good lord.”   

A wicked smile curled her lips. “Hey, when you were young did you ever play Interview?”     

“Interview? What’s that?”     

“A party game. Margie and I play it on slow days at work. Great way to pass the time, even better way to get to know someone.”     

“Is that right?” He considered her for a moment. “How do you play?”     

She lit up.     

“I ask you questions. You ask me questions. Not dumb-ball 'oh what's your favorite color' crap, but, like, legitimate questions. Questions about each other's history and stuff. The goal is to find out about a person. To learn about who they really are. Helps you, you know, get comfortable sharing with someone."      

“So, an exchange of personal information, basically.”   

“Basically, yeah. Want to play? It'll be fuu-uuun,” she sing-songed.     

The mischief was clear in her eyes.     

Doyle swallowed thickly and gave her a lopsided grin. “All right. Why not.”   

“Groovy. I'll go first. Give you an easy one. Star Trek or Star Wars?"   

The question tickled him.    

"I thought you said no dumb-ball questions."  

"This one's a warm-up question," Oakley explained. "So, which is it? Star Trek or Star Wars?"  

"Doctor Who."    

"Fair enough." She chuckled. "Now you ask me one."   

"Hmm. Same question, I suppose. Star Trek or Star Wars?"   

"Mother fucking Star Trek, my man. Captain Kirk for the win."   

"What about Picard?"   

"Too diplomatic. I want a captain who can take charge. Who's not afraid to shoot an alien directly in the face."   

"Noted. Your go."   

"Ever kill anybody?"    

"No."   

"Ever wanted to?"   

"Oh, only every day."    

Grinning – "Ever punch anyone in the face?"  

"That's three questions in a row you've asked now."  

"This and the last were follow-ups. You're allowed to do follow-ups."  

"I see."  

"So, you ever been in a fight, or what?"   

"Once, back in primary school. I hit my mate Craig, he hit me back. Turned into a schoolyard brawl."   

"Oh yeah? What'd you two fight about?"   

"I honestly can't remember now, it's been so long. It's all a bit embarrassing, really."   

"How come?"   

"I acted like an animal in public."    

Oakley was visibly offended. "So, what, you think it's embarrassing to act like an animal or something?"   

"In public, yes. It's the way I was raised, Gerry."    

She looked at him with wary, critical eyes. He bristled.    

"Well what about _you_ , Gerry? Have _you_ ever lost your cool in public?"   

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I have."   

He quirked an eyebrow expectantly and she said "In school. This guy tried to grab my tail when my tail wasn't out, so I knocked his ass horizontal."    

Doyle swallowed, and the hand that was closest to Oakley did a fast crab-scuttle into the protective warmth of his lap.    

"I see. And did you, ah, regret it afterwards?" he chanced meekly.   

"Got suspended for it. But no, I never regretted it. The creep had it coming. I'm glad I laid him out."   

Some silence.   

Doyle shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Shall I ask you another?"   

She seemed easier now. "Sure."   

"Do you believe in God?"   

"Hooo-whee," she whistled. "You came onto the mound with a curve-ball for me, didn't you. Do I believe in God? I mean, I'm from Wyoming, so, I guess I have to."   

"But do you really?"   

"Uhmmmm, I'll go ahead and say yes."   

"Really? Even with all that's happened to us? Even with everything that's been done in the name of God to our kind specifically – you believe in Him?"   

"Look, man, the way I see it, God has no control over that shit. Bad things happen to everyone. Even the boring animals. All I know is that we're beautiful. Logically, something so beautiful shouldn't exist. But we do. And if something as beautiful as us can exist, then that's proof right there that the other impossible shit exists, isn't it?"   

Doyle could think of a thousand rational retorts to negate that statement. Maybe asking her a theological question had been a mistake.   

Doyle said "It's your turn again."   

"Alright. You ever get married?"   

"No."   

"Never?"   

"Never."   

She studied his face. "How come?"   

"I don't know." He tried to analyze it and found the answer both simple and depressing. "I suppose . . . I suppose it was because I never found anybody I was truly comfortable living the rest of my life with."  

That was only partially true, but he did not feel comfortable elaborating.     

Oakley nodded. "You ever date another wolf?"   

"I could never find another wolf to date, remember." Doyle said. _Until now, that is,_ he added as an afterthought.   

"So you only dated boring animals." Oakley deduced.   

"Yes." said Doyle.   

"Your mom approve of that?"   

"Of course. Why wouldn't she?"   

Oakley's smile went away.   

"Your turn," she mumbled.   

Doyle thought about what he might like to ask her. He decided to dive in at the deep end again.   

"Do you think you know the meaning of love?"   

Her smile came back. "So, like . . . _What is love? Baby don't hurt me, baby don't hurt me, no_ _mo_ –"   

He poked her hard in the arm and she recoiled with a wounded yip.   

"You young people. You think you're so smart, don't you," Doyle said disdainfully.   

Rubbing her arm, sticking her pink tongue out at him – "Smarter than you are, old man."   

He winced, recovered, went on. "I retract my previous question and substitute it with . . . What's the one thing guaranteed to make you laugh?"   

"Aw, you know that already. Bad werewolf jokes."   

"What do you call a hairy beast in a river? A weir-wolf."   

Oakley flashed her tongue at him for a second time, giggling.   

"I've memorized a gaggle of them for you." He confessed.    

"I bet. Next question?"  

"Go on."

"Do you think you were raised well?"   

"Do you think anybody's ever answered that question with a _yes_?"   

She shook her head and laughed some more. "How about . . . Have you ever made out until you ran out of breath?"   

"Yes." Doyle said cooly.   

"Details?"   

He shook his head.   

"Well can I at least know her name?"   

His face was carefully blank. "Elaine."   

"Just Elaine?"   

"Just Elaine."   

"She the one from the picture? The one who gave you the guitar?"   

"No."   

"She the one you lost your virginity to?"   

"No."   

"When did you–"   

He cut her off. "When did _you,_ Gerry? Don't try and steal my turn, please."   

She blinked at him and then said "Sixteen. Popped my cherry at sixteen."   

"Quite young," Doyle sniffed peevishly.  

"Not really. He was sixteen too."   

"Let me guess," Doyle said, feeling suddenly dejected. "You gave yourself away to some muscular farm boy with corn-yellow hair and sun-kissed skin?"   

"Actually, he was a wolf. I never saw what he looked without his pelt on but hey, good guess. E for effort."   

Doyle was almost too stunned to respond. He pictured her naked body writhing under a mass of hair and teeth, and felt his trousers tent slightly.   

"Were you . . . Did you . . . Had you taken your pelt out too?" he rasped.   

Oakley's laughter was bold and beautiful. "Well sure I had my pelt on, scruff. Would'a been weird otherwise, right? Saying that, though, if a zombie and a werewolf fuck, is that bestiality, or necrophilia?"   

He stared at her. The joke sailed over his head.    

"Oh, look at you," Oakley said with a knowing smile. "You're trying to figure out the mechanics of it right now, aren't you. Come on. Quit playing dumb. You know how it works."   

Doyle slowly shook his head.   

"Really?" Now it was her turn to be stunned. "But you must've read something or seen something at _some_ point in your life."   

Doyle, still silent, hung his head.    

"Seriously? Don't you have the Discovery Channel over here? David Attenborough – he was one of yours, wasn't he? He must've done a BBC special on Yellowstone wolves or something. Right?"    

Doyle stiffened. "I was never allowed to watch things like that."   

"Oh . . . So you really don't–"   

"No. I mean, I'm familiar with the mechanics, as you say, but, well, not everything is mechanics. Is it."   

"Oh." she said again. Her tone was blessedly empty of pity or mockery. "Want me to tell you how it works? Like, what it feels like?" she offered.    

A jolt of electricity curled up Doyle’s spine.      

He licked his lips. "Is it bus appropriate?”     

“I'll keep my voice down so the youngins don't hear,” Oakley replied with a suggestive wink.

    

* * *

_[_ _The coach is pulling onto the A827, picking up speed. Inside, a few passengers are talking; others are reading. Most are unconscious, put to sleep by the droning hum of the engine. At the front, the driver watches them all with bored intrigue.]_    

  

Lawrence McCullough was forty-two, overweight, and greasy. His prescription driving glasses enlarged and goggled his eyes to such an extent that he looked like an enormous toad squatting behind the steering wheel of the big Caetano Levante bodied coach.   

On the wide dashboard in front of him, the satnav beeped shrilly.    

McCullough ignored it. He did not need a computerized guidance system to tell him where he was going. The route was already well memorized, and he had long since fallen into the habit of driving on mental auto-pilot.   

Reflexively he eased the bus into the passing lane and joined a long procession of lorries in a sluggish crawl toward his upcoming exit. They rolled a few feet, stopped, rolled a few more stuttering feet, and then came to an abrupt standstill. McCullough twisted in his seat, trying to look past the end of the long tanker in front of him.   

Unfortunately, the cause of the gridlock was obstructed, but if he squinted, McCullough could see the dim, blue-red flash of sirens painting the asphalt’s edge.   

_Not construction, then_ , McCullough thought with a dismal sigh.   

Occasionally, when he found himself stuck in traffic like this, his brain would get antsy. It was getting antsy now.    

Stealthily adjusting his glasses, McCullough skimmed the passengers reflected in the rearview mirror, looking for something to entertain himself with.  

It wasn’t like it was on public busses. There were no potential hazards – no drunks or vagrants or mad bag-ladies who refused to pay their fair before getting on. Coach passengers were resigned to their journey. They sat like quiet, well-behaved children, keeping mostly to themselves until the ride was over. McCullough imagined their passiveness had something to do with watching the hypnotizing roll of the road for hours on end.    

Sometimes it was hard to find an entertaining passenger on a road-trip coach. Today, however, McCullough was in luck. A pair of distorted faces immediately jumped out at him in the mirror. An older man and a younger woman, squeezed in close to one another across the aisle.    

The woman reminded McCullough vaguely of Bette Davis, although he couldn’t say why exactly, and he thought the man looked a little like a stretched-out version of Michael Keaton. They were sitting four rows behind him on the left-hand side, discussing something wildly amusing in whispers and giggles.    

McCullough wondered how they knew each other.   

_Definitely not strangers. Not with the way they're sitting,_ he deduced. _Grandfather and granddaughter, maybe?_     

McCullough shook his fat head, as though he were answering a question someone else had asked him.    

The pair in the mirror were definitely not related. They looked nothing alike, and their mannerisms were totally opposing.   

McCullough saw Davis tap Keaton’s hawkish nose affectionately. The old man's hollow cheeks went fire-engine red.    

Cozy behavior like that suggested friendship. But could someone that young (or _pretty_ ) really be friends with such a withered old husk as Keaton? McCullough doubted it. He tried to peg them as coworkers instead, but that didn't ring true either. Neither of them looked very much like the traveling-businessman-type. That, and Davis’ face was close enough to Keaton’s now that he could probably count her eyelashes. You didn’t get that close to a coworker unless –   

_Unless you’re shagging them_ , McCullough thought suddenly.   

But the possibility seemed outrageous to him.   

_No way she’s getting off with that geezer. He’s a bloody skeleton._    

Ahead of the coach, the tanker pulled forward half a foot. McCullough did the same and then his eyes dropped back to the pair in the mirror.   

Davis had her hand cupped around the shell of Keaton's ear, and she was whispering secretly to him. Keaton sat very still, his hands gripping his thighs. When Davis pulled away she made a subtle show of uncrossing her legs. Keaton stared at her with something like unabashed wonder.    

_Huh_ , thought McCullough. _Maybe they are shagging. Lucky bloke must be her sugar-daddy or something._    

More talking. The pair were consumed by the topic. McCullough wished he could hear what they were saying.    

He saw Keaton shift about in his seat several times, grunt a few loud obscenities. Davis, still talking, had an easy smile on her face.    

More movement in front of the coach. McCullough’s eyes left the pair again so he could fiddle with the wheel. Looking back, he saw Keaton talking quickly, his long face animated, his bony hands flapping around in a decidedly Italian way.    

He must have said something funny, because the next thing McCullough knew, Davis was clapping her hands together in a burst of wicked laughter.    

At the same time, the traffic dispersed, and the line of lorries began to move steadily along again. McCullough crept the coach ahead, his exit in sight.    

Behind him, Keaton was blushing furiously now. Davis touched the old man's arm and said another soft something-or-other into his ear.   

_A question_ , McCullough registered.   

Keaton's heavy eyebrows shot up, but he seemed reluctant to answer Davis. She tried gently at first to cajole him. Her pink mouth returned to his ear to add another sentence or two, and then there was some stroking of his arm.    

Keaton looked ready to faint.    

McCullough hoped he wouldn't have to pull over. The traffic had held him up long enough as it was. He wanted to make it to Highland Perthshire on time.   

In the mirror, Davis was still trying to wheedle an answer out of Keaton.   

McCullough, watching the mirror, saw Davis' head come closer to Keaton's. Now her lips were only a few centimeters away from his own. It was a wonder the old man didn't try to kiss her. It certainly looked like he wanted to. In fact, from what McCullough could see, the old man wanted to do more than just kiss her.    

_Poor bastard wants to fuck her boneless,_ McCullough realized.   

Keaton continued to stare at Davis. His eyes were comically wide. Davis' finger was still drawing lazy little circles on his forearm. It was having quite the effect on him.    

_Little tease, little tart_ , though McCullough. S _he's having a right bit of fun with him, isn't she._    

He saw Keaton turn his head and smile at Davis – a warm, apologetic smile that looked a little distorted in the curve of the big mirror.    

From behind came a loud and angry honk.  

McCullough hastily swung his big eyes back to the windshield, content to pay attention to the road again.   

   

* * *

   
_[The coach is exiting into Perth and Kinross. On it, Ian Doyle removes his jacket and strategically rearranges it over his lap to hide his throbbing erection.]_

  

Doyle's heart was pounding and his palms were wet.      

“No comment.” he repeated.    

“Oh come _on_ ,” Oakley probed. "Quit being such a prude and just tell me already."   

"No. Comment."    

"I told you about my first time. It's only fair I get to hear about yours."    

"Is it fair to the girl I first slept with, for me to share _our_ experience with _you_?" Said Doyle primly.   

Oakley's smile drooped. She fixed him with a half-playful, half-serious glare.    

"Okay," she said. "How about this – favorite fantasy?"   

"No."   

"Why not?"   

" _Why not?_ Why do you want to know so badly, Gerry? Hmm?"   

"Why you want to keep it from me so badly, _Ian_?"   

"Because it's impolite to talk about that kind of thing with . . . with . . ."   

"With dainty old me? Ian, I'm the one who _asked_ you the question in the first place. Why in the hell would I get offended by the answer?" She laughed. "Come on. I opened up to you. I just about had a breakdown in front of you a couple nights ago. You can do the same thing now. That’s how wolves are supposed to be. That's how _friends_ are supposed to be."   

"We're already friends, Gerry."   

"Yeah, but how can we be _good_ friends if we don't know share everything with each other. I mean, as your friend, I have a right to know your worst perversions. Don't I?" She laughed.   

Doyle heaved an exasperated sigh. "That's really stretching it."    

"Hey, man, look at it this way – if you don't tell me now, I'll have to make an assessment on my own. And who knows. I might just peg you as a weirdo if you don't give me all the details while you've got the chance."   

Doyle rubbed his forehead. He really could deny her nothing.   

"All right, fine. Have it your way." He grumbled, and took a deep breath. "I suppose, I mean, if I had to pick a fantasy that, ah, appealed . . . Well I guess I've always wanted to . . . to try it once, you know, outsi–"   

The bus went over a rough speed bump, and by some divine intervention, Doyle's reason reasserted it's self.      

“Ah, no, no.” he said, blushing profusely. “I can’t tell you this. Not here. We'll carry on later, I promise."   

"Damn." She sounded genuinely disappointed. "Don't you at least want to know mine before we hit the pause button?"     

Shaking his head in earnest; "Later. For now, I vote we talk about something a little less –“    

"Impolite?" She scoffed.    

Doyle wiggled uncomfortably in the chair. “Provocative.”     

Oakley pretended to pout. “I guess . . . For the record, though, I like fucking outdoors, too.”     

Sitting idle at a rare Scottish stop-light, the bus shuddered a little on its wheels. Doyle shuddered too, and a fresh wave of self-loathing washed over him. Such a glib, cheap reference to sex should have offended him – at least, in some small way. Instead, it had only turned him on again.   

_So much for maintaining my integrity_ , he thought glumly.    

   

* * *

_[The silver coach pulls into_ _Aberfeldy_ _in Highland_ _Perthshire_ _with a long screech_ _, lowers on its hydraulics, and parks_ _. It is_ _6:25 in the evening.]_   

  

Lawrence McCullough caught sight of Keaton and Davis again in the terminal as he walked into the station cafe for a cup of tea. They were heading for the doors. Keaton was dragging a scuffed suitcase in one hand, and he was guiding Davis gently along with the other.     

For just a moment, McCullough felt a terrible chill cross his back.    

He was reminded of the foxes he used to see, back when he was driving the big, public double-deckers in London at night. He would spot the foxes only for a second as they were slinking quickly into the alleyways behind the restaurants where the skips were. He remembered their pale yellow eyes flashing ominously in the beam of his headlights, and their eerie, shriek-like howling.    

McCullough stood in the terminal, his bulging gaze fixed on Davis and Keaton, trying to pinpoint just what about them exactly had made him think of foxes in the night.    

Then the pair passed out onto the crowded curb to flag down a cab, and he lost sight of them.   

 

* * *

_[Ian Doyle and Geraldine Oakley_ _, their faces pointing into the murky sunshine. Stretching, yawning, realizing they are almost there.]_   

  

Doyle and Oakley came out of the aging and maligned bus terminal to the smell of fresh hay and sizzling asphalt, and flagged down a cab. The cabbie, a middle-aged man with a bald head and an _I Support_ _A_ _rsenal_ jumper, insisted on having both front seats in the cab as far back on their tracks as possible. When Doyle asked why, the cabbie refused to give an explanation. Doyle found he was too tired to argue with him.   

He climbed into the cab after Oakley, sliding his long legs under the front passenger's seat with some effort, and slammed the door shut. Sitting beside her again in the cab, without the protection of an armrest, his hand instantly itched to put its self back on her warm thigh.   

He remembered what Oakley had told him on the bus; _This guy tried to grab my tail when my tail wasn't out, so I knocked his ass horizontal._   

"Here." Doyle said, quickly shoving his suitcase onto Oakley's lap.   

"Where's this supposed to go?" She said, surprised.   

"Right where it is."   

"How come?"   

"It – Well – That is, I just don't want it to get dirty," Doyle blurted.    

"It won't get dirty on the floor, Ian." Oakley said, indicating the junk food bag resting at her feet.   

"I'd really rather you keep it, please."  

"What about the boot? It won't get dirty there, either. Here, let me–"  

She started to lift the suitcase off of herself, but then the cabbie dropped his flag and the cab cruised up the street. Oakley was stuck balancing the suitcase across her knees.   

Doyle pretended not to notice. He stared out at the shrouded countryside as it sailed by, intensely aware of Oakley's limber body, less than six inches from him on the sleek leather seat. She was squirming and wiggling, trying to get comfortable with his suitcase on top of her. Eventually Doyle slid to the far left and twisted himself uncomfortably in the cab so that he sat facing the window at an awkward, fifty-degree angle.    

Crammed against the door, he put the suitcase between them on the seat.   

"There. Is that better?" He asked Oakley.   

She gave him an approving nod.    

Doyle returned his attention to the window, his back curved away from her shoulder, and rested his head on the glass – his entire body burning with ugly desire.     

The cab rolled silently through a small hamlet. Narrow brick houses flashed by outside, darkly saturated by the approaching dusk. Further in were curiosity shops and a poorly-lit high-street. Doyle spied the local pub as they passed it, along with a handful of stout men silhouetted in the wide windows.    

Then the cab drove up a winding road, and down again, out of the hamlet – into a stretch of farmland.    

It was hot in the cab. The scent of Oakley's perspiration came to Doyle in light, pleasant waves. He swiftly unrolled the window – letting in a sobering gust of cool, country air – and stuck his head part-way out into the whipping wind to take as big a sniffing-breath of it as he could. The idea was to fill his nostrils with whatever was farthest from Oakley's sweet fragrance. In this case, it was the foul, alleviating smell of barley and manure.     

At the same time, Oakley cranked down the window on her side, lit a cigarette, cocked a pale elbow on the pane, and smoked until the gloomy sky became beaded with a steady drizzle. Then she tossed the cigarette away and rolled her window back up. Doyle did the same, and together they shared the last candy bar from the bag and listened to the sound of the raindrops pattering the glass and bonnet.     

Now vast clumps of trees were floating by. A small pond came up on the left, and Doyle saw a flock of five or six ducks alight from the water. A lone cow ambled down the edge of the road. According to the cabbie, they were less than a mile from the cabin.    

Mountains rose out of the distance, covered by an enfolding blanket of low mist.   

Doyle watched in rapt silence as the soggy gray-green pastures became the dark and bloated wilderness of Northern Scotland.    

The cab glided over the last stretch of glossy asphalt before turning right, onto a ferny road that slanted down into true woodland. As they drove on, the thickening pines pushed in closer on both sides of the road, creating a kind of branch-work tunnel. Soon the road lost its paving altogether and became a single lane of packed dirt.    

Bouncing and groaning over the mud, Doyle wondered how the ride was effecting Oakley. Maybe she was enjoying it.     

The black cab sped deeper into the shadow-speckled forest, through another hamlet, past a small church and another, smaller pub until, finally, it came to a drab cluster of wooden buildings nestled in a dense thicket of sequoias.   

 

* * *

_[Spencer_ _Hitsch_ _'s_ _cabin sits back from the main road, set into the forest, half hidden by a line of stout fir-trees. Shrouded in perfect solitude, it has a strong connection to the natural world, and is a beautiful blend of both the_ _rustic_ _, and the comfortably modern. There are more than enough windows, and the cabin is oriented so that they follow the path of the sun and moon. Natural light floods in consistently.]_    

  

Oakley was practically jumping out of her seat by the time the cab pulled into the drive. Seeing her so exuberant made Doyle's heart lurch.    

"Is that it? Are we here?"   

"We're here," said Doyle.    

"Wow, it's so _nice_."    

Doyle was reluctant to agree with her at first. To him, the cabin looked a little more ramshackle than Hitsch's painting had originally suggested. With the curtains drawn and the porch light off, it had an almost deserted, shut-up feel about it.   

Brown moss covered the shingles of the roof. A crooked stack of dry logs sat beneath the eave, and an ugly ivy vine had climbed up to strangle the short, brick chimney. By the front wall, a rickety wooden porch-swing rocked restlessly in the wind, and a small collection of abandoned spiderwebs hung between the lintel corners above the door.    

Admittedly, it was not the most inviting building Doyle had ever laid eyes on, but, since Oakley seemed to like it, he decided his own opinion didn't really matter.      

The cab came to a stop and Doyle handed the cabbie a tight wad of money.  

"Thanks, guv." Said the cabbie.  

Doyle moved to open the door.   

Oakley leaned over his suitcase. "Ian, thank you. This is the best thing anyone's ever done for me," she said, her hand on his cheek.   

Doyle closed his eyes so that he could not see the pulse in Oakley's throat.   

"I mean it." He heard her add. The statement was genuine. He could tell.    

Doyle eyes opened wide again, and in a moment he could no longer hear his heart.   

He came out of the cab looking like a stiff breeze might blow him over. Around him, an abundance of Scottish forest – inherently familiar but strange now because of his prolonged absence from it – and a mix of heady, natural smells. Aspen and wild cherries, and the same sweet, aromatic stink of horse manure.    

Doyle took a few staggering steps towards the cabin. Behind him, Oakey stepped out of the cab, into the dust of the drive. He watched her stick her chest out, inhale loudly, and then slouch back with a big, dopey grin on her face.     

"Ahh! Smell that? That's the smell of pine, yes sir-ree!" She exclaimed, shuffling up to him, dragging and bumping his heavy suitcase.    

Together they watched the cab wallow away back up the road. Then they made their way down to the cabin by way of the narrow dirt path.   

Doyle could hear the birds in the trees and the high branches rustling in the wind and rain. He could hear the distant, hard _thwack_ of an axe chopping wood. And beyond the cabin, across a grove of heather, Doyle could hear the subtle lap of moving water.    

Some part of him (the wolf, he supposed) felt instantly at peace.  

There was a small garden full of yellow-orange tulips decorating the space below the porch. Walking past, Doyle stooped to pluck one up, and handed it to Oakley as he clipped the porch steps. Oakley swiped a strand of hair behind her ear and stuck it in place with the tulip. Doyle thought she looked quite fetching like that – a little like a Frida Kahlo portrait.    

"So is this a cabin or a cottage, officially?" Oakley asked him as they approached the screen door.   

"A cabin."    

He dipped a hand into his trouser pocket and took out the key Hitsch had given him.   

"What's the difference?" Oakley questioned, watching as he pulled the screen door open.   

"How they're built, I'd imagine," Doyle said, reaching for the door knob.   

"Hey, what happens if your friend gave you the wrong key by mistake?"   

Doyle paused. "Then I’ll look like an enormous prat, won't I."   

Oakley laughed. "I'm sure it'll work."  

"Here's hoping," said Doyle. He squeezed the key once for luck, slipped it into the lock, twisted, and heard the bolt unhinge.   

Relief coursed through him.    

He pushed the door open partway and peaked inside. A single shaft of sunlight fell from the open doorway onto the hardwood floors of a small hallway. The air in the hallway smelled musty, unaired, obscurely tired.    

Doyle and Oakley traded anxious glances at one another as they stepped inside.   

Directly in front of them was a short staircase that lead up to the second floor. Off to the right was a doorless study that Hitsch had turned into a kind of studio. It was crowded with bookcases full of dusty books and bound periodicals. Occupying it's center – piled high with random, expensive-looking knickknacks – was a small, wooden desk. Something old and well kept. Leaning against the desk were three easels neatly stacked together, ranging in height from tabletop (the shortest), to Lyre (the largest). Across the rug from the desk, beneath a big bay window, an open chest held a number of other artistic tools, including three glass-jam-jars full of used paint brushes, several dirtied palettes, a shoe-box full of oil pastels, another shoe-box full of acrylic paint tubes, a _third_ shoe-box full of oil paints, and a handful of other assorted items that had been unceremoniously shoved into a dried-out old bean can.    

Off to the left of the front hall was a wide sitting room. Sparsely furnished and immaculately clean, the room was bathed primarily in shadow, and the walls were dark wood, decorated with a rich collection of items. Old snowshoes and deer antlers. A number of landscape and wildlife paintings. A cuckoo clock that Hitsch had likely brought over from Germany.   

Crossing into the sitting room, Doyle saw that the far left wall became a stacked-stone fireplace with a polished wooden mantel and a faux-fur rug lying at its base. A trio of wrought-iron fire pokers dangled from metal hooks set in-between the stones. Facing the fireplace was a worn fabric settee, bookended on both sides by a set of small, carved, oak tables – each adorned with an antique, birch bark lamp.    

Doyle went at once to one of the settee lamps and switched it on. It cast a warm, dim circle of light around the sitting room, stretching his shadow so that it slithered down an adjacent hallway and fell dead on the kitchen floor.     

Doyle stood back and let Oakley survey the sitting room.    

“Well," he asked her, sounding nervous. "What do you think?”   

Oakley made a ridiculous noise that sounded exactly like helium escaping a balloon.    

"Oh my god! It's got a fireplace!" She squealed.      

“Do you like it, then?” he asked her softly.   

“Oh, Ian. I love it.”   

His smile widened. “Honestly?”   

“Honestly. It's like, I don't know, like I came home, only better.”   

Beaming, Doyle stepped over to the heavy, brown curtains. He twirled them open so she could look around a little more thoroughly. Dustmotes swarmed in the sunlight above her head.    

"Where's the TV?" she asked him.   

"We don't need one, surely," Said Doyle.   

"How about a microwave?"   

Doyle wasn't sure. Together they glanced into the kitchen. There were empty bottles everywhere, and a few stale mugs sitting in the sink. A small oak table with fold-away leafs was pushed up against a dusty window by a gas-range stove.     

There was no microwave.   

"I'm sorry," Doyle said.   

"That's okay. We'll be eating free-range for the most part, anyway."   

The kitchen transitioned into a rather warmly appointed pantry full of cheap wine.  

"Real funny diet your friend has," Oakley commented. She turned away from the pantry to face him. "Come on, let's go check out the bed situation."  

Doyle walked with her back through the sitting room to the staircase. There, Oakley kicked out of her boots and led him upstairs, running her fingers over the satiny finish of the wooden banister as she went.     

"I was told there'd be two rooms. A master bedroom and a guest room." Doyle informed her as they climbed.  

"Groovy."  

They reached the landing and separated. Oakley made her way down the corridor in search of the bedrooms, while Doyle looked for the bathroom. He came to the first of two pine-paneled doors on his left and gently creaked it open. Glancing in, he saw a small room floored with diamond-shaped, green tiles. At the far back, against the wall, a white bathtub with a stand-alone shower head and a plastic shower-curtain neighbored a modest toilet. Beside them was a linen closet. And across from that was a sink, over which a mirrored medicine cabinet rested.    

Doyle withdrew and walked to the next door. This one lead into a small bedroom. Doyle started in, then hesitated. The room did not possess the same cozy and familiar look as the rest of the house. There was a drab bed pressed flush against the far wall, an empty closet, its door ajar, a small dresser with a short vanity mirror that showed the doorway, and Doyle, in it's grimy surface. The stained wallpaper and window-curtains had a matching, flowery motif, but at the same time held a contradictory stale smell that Doyle thought was out of place.    

He went to the window, shucked it open, and let the breeze tussle his hair for a moment.   

Then he looked down. The view the window provided was exquisite.    

The tip of a wide lake stretched out before the cabin in the late evening light, covered by a thin sheet of dissipating mist that rose about a foot off the water. Eerily still, it looked like a wide pane of glass, and reflected the gray sky in it's gloomy surface. Tall pines decorated the water's edge, and the only noticeable movement came from a few sawbills bobbing gently along by the reeds.    

Doyle spent a few long seconds staring out the window, admiring the view as the sun ripples from the lake danced and wavered on the high white ceiling above his head.   

Afterward, he turned to inspect the bed. It was a basic single-mattress with a worn metal frame.    

_Too small to fit more than one person_ , Doyle realized sadly.    

From down the hall he heard Oakley call out at him.   

"Scruff! Come see this!"     

Doyle left the stale bedroom and found Oakley in a second, larger bedroom directly across the hall.    

This one was well lived-in and warmly furnished. There was an expensive-looking maple wardrobe by the big window, a bright patchwork quilt on the double bed, and rather than wallpaper, the walls were covered by rich wood paneling. The fixtures too were scoured and the air sweetened.    

Doyle came into the room and noticed a painting of a large, black dog hanging on the wall above the bed.   

_Appropriate_ , he thought to himself.   

Oakley was standing by the wardrobe, smiling at him. "I call this room," she said.    

Doyle snapped his fingers, feigning disappointment. "Drat. I wanted the bigger bed."   

"Wah-wah-wah," she said, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye.   

"No, really. My legs are longer, I should have it."   

"Too bad, so sad, go on home and cry to dad."   

Doyle watched her peel off her socks and crawl onto the bed barefoot. There was something about the image that he found incredibly erotic.       

Oakley positioned herself by the pillow and sat up like a yogi, her legs crossed carelessly high, denim jacket gone, her left dress-strap slipping obscenely low on her shoulder.    

"So . . . You going to read to me some more?" She asked him.   

"Probably."   

A knowing little smirk. "Probably, huh? That means yes."   

"Does it?"   

"Probably means yes and maybe means no."   

“In my case, probably means later."   

Oakley threw her head back in a mimicry of limp prostration, letting her long, bare legs dangle off the short side of the bed.    

"Welp, if that's what's happening later, what's happening _now_?" She questioned.   

Doyle licked his lips, unable to drag his eyes off her. "What, sorry? What do you mean?"   

"Well we're here now, aren't we. What do we do now that we're here?"   

Doyle had a brief mental flash of Oakley on the bed, sans clothing – her legs spread eagle and her hair a sticky, sweaty mess.    

He struggled to speak. "Ah, right. Yes. Um . . ."   

He had done his best to plan their journey to a tee, but it had never occurred to him to stop and think past the point of their arrival at the cabin. Again, he swung between idealizing the situation, and fearing the worst.    

"What would _you_ like to do?" He finally asked her, a small tremor of hope in his voice.   

Oakley hummed to herself. "I'm thinking we're both too shot to hunt right now. We passed a pub about a mile back. We could walk there, get a drink maybe?"    

“Drink? Jesus, you want to add _drink_ to the equation?”    

“Equation?”    

Doyle shook his head. “Nothing. We can go for a drink if you like. Let me just take care of something first."     

He grabbed his suitcase and moved to the door.   

"Nature's calling, huh. Gonna go mark your territory?" Oakley chuckled.     

Doyle wrinkled his nose at the comment and shuffled quickly down the hall and into the bathroom.     

After he locked the door he went immediately to the window, flung it open, and tore off his sweat-drenched shirt. He wanted to take a shower and freshen up. He wanted to take a nap and recuperate. He wanted Oakley to nap along with him, in the big, comfortable-looking bed. He wanted to wake with her later in the night when the stars were out and indulge in a little bit of harmless, heavy petting.      

But Oakley had requested the pub, so he would give her the pub instead.      

When he was finished changing, Doyle tossed his discarded clothes back into the open suitcase, quickly used the facilities, and drifted back out of the bathroom. He came back into Oakley's bedroom wearing a dark grey jumper and a pair of faded black jeans. He sagged into the mattress next to her with a weak sigh.      

"Tired?" Oakley asked him.   

She was still horizontal on the bed, her pale limbs spread carelessly across the mattress like a starfish. After a second she rolled playfully onto her stomach. In that position, the firm, round cheeks of her bottom were limned clearly against the cotton dress. Doyle was extremely tempted to nestle in against her, draw her roundness to him, and simply float off to sleep.      

"Quite tired," He huffed instead.      

Oakley let out a yawn that sounded more like a breathy moan.   

"Me too. Think we both need to eat. We can grab something at the pub," She decided.   

With an enthusiastic bark, she sprang off the bed, threw her hands into the air like an accomplished gymnast, and proceeded to hoist Doyle up by the elbow. He gave a reluctant groan and let her lead him out of the bedroom.

     

* * *

_[Ian Doyle and Geraldine Oakley walk along a path in the near-dark rain. A shroud of dense, Scottish fog settles above the path around them and snakes its way through the trees in winding tentacles. Out of the fog emerges the wide lake. Drearily still, and beautiful.]_    

  

Even though it was nearly dark, Doyle put his sunglasses on again right before stepping out. Oakley wasn't sure if the sunglasses were the obvious product of a midlife crisis, or something from Doyle's past, but she liked them either way. They gave her a nice glimpse of what she imagined Doyle used to be. A hint of the cooler, more confident version of Doyle she had seen in the photographs at his flat.   

"I really am digging the sunglasses," Oakley said at last.    

A slow smile tugged at the corners of Doyle's mouth. "I'm flattered."    

"Hey, did you ever see that movie _They Live_?"    

Doyle grew somber and pulled his sunglasses off. Putting on his best American voice, he held up the sunglasses and said " _I'm giving you a choice: either put on these glasses or start_ _eatin_ _' that trash can._ "    

Oakley beamed. "Aliens and sunglasses. I should've known."    

Doyle chuckled and slipped the sunglasses back on. "Am I really that predictable?"    

" _I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass._ _._ _._ " She growled.    

" _And I'm all out of bubblegum._ " He finished.    

"Yeah, you're that predictable, all right. And stick to your own accent. You're American is awful."    

"She is, isn't she."    

"Shut up."  

They circled around the back of the cabin, heading for the lake. Oakley had insisted on seeing it, if only to smell the pine trees a little.  

For Oakley, the whole day had been one, long, continuous avalanche of foreign smells. All of them strong enough to actually break through the wall of olfactory adaptation she had developed at the airport.   

She had sampled the smells of the tube, the train, the bus, the cab. Not just the stink of transportation (exhaust fumes and tire rubber and cool, sweet antifreeze) but the musk of strangers. Men and women and children. A whiff of coffee here, a whiff of alcohol there. The rancid stink of fresh sweat, the flowery aroma of expensive perfume. Other smells – disgusting ones like spit-dried chewing gum and the residual pungency of passed gas.     

The cabin, too, had come with a multitude of smells to sift through, although these were less exhausting. Some of them were even pleasant. The smell of worn leather and lace cloth, stale mothballs, bitter dust, damp firewood and old ash. What must have been the previous occupant's scent, faintly woven into the walls and furniture.     

After everything, Oakley was badly in need of a pallet-cleanser – and the one she preferred was the close, sweet, relieving smell of damp pine. She wanted to feel warm and safe and unafraid, and pine always helped with that. It reminded her of home and of the wild, and of the freedom of the unexplored forest.    

"Pine soothes the wolf," was what her mother used to say.  

When Oakley reached the lakeside she broke from Doyle and ran past the overgrown weeds and wildflowers, aiming for the water's edge. The lake wind blew her hair and pressed the thin cotton of her dress against her body as she moved. From a distance, Doyle stared, humbled by the sight of her. He continued to stare even as she went to stand before the water, jet black and frigid in October.   

By herself, she gazed into it's murky, reflective depths, and found the place reminded her suddenly of Wyoming. All at once, she was overcome by a familiar feeling. A feeling that was as out-of-body as anything she'd ever felt, even as a wolf. A kind of overwhelming confidence that if she fell to her knees on those rocks by the water, somehow, her knees would be touching a part of home.  

In that instant she felt cleansed. Restored.     

Oakley stayed there on the pebbly beach for a long time, listening to the gentle crash of the cold water against the rough land around it. When she left, she had to pull herself away. She found Doyle hunkered further down the beach, lanky and tall against the dark trees. He was examining something in the rocks – an earring. Oakley watched him pick it up and dust it off, all the time holding it as if it were a small, wounded animal. After a minute, he brought it over to her.     

"What's that?" Oakley asked as he came up beside her.     

Doyle held the dirty earring up for her to see. The silver bail held a single, ovular drop of topaz.      

"Pretty gem." she said, eying the earring with incredulity.      

"I thought so. Might re-fashion it into a necklace."     

"Who for?"     

Doyle gave her a secretive smile. He slipped the earring into his trouser-pocket and turned to face the water.      

"Wasn't real silver, was it?" Oakley asked nervously.     

"It didn't burn me."     

Oakley relaxed. "Yeah, well, just remember to wash your hands before you touch your face."     

"Yes, mum."   

On the lake, a sawbill voiced its lonely cry. Oakley took one last fleeting glimpse at the water (a new memory surfaced – the smell of sunscreen this time and the bright Margate beach, with Weller in his swim trunks, waving to her from the glistening salt-water), and sighed. Then she poked around in her purse for a minute, lit a cigarette, and walked back up the hill with Doyle to the dirt road.    

Overhead, a crescent moon was struggling to make it through the darkening cloud-cover.      

Oakley trudged ahead through the mud. Doyle marched awkwardly behind her. Eventually the road became a steep incline. Oakley and Doyle kept walking until they reached the crest of the hill where the road leveled off. Below the hill lay a narrow valley, thick with heavy overgrowth. Where the road straightened along the floor of the valley Oakley could see the second hamlet they had driven through. The hamlet of Conall. There were a dozen or so toy-like buildings clustered on either side of a short high-street, lit faintly in the darkness.   

Oakley took a last drag on her cigarette, crushed the butt under her boot-heel, and immediately lit another.  

"Beautiful, isn't it?"  

From behind her she heard Doyle mutter a soggy “Yes, very." Then, with a touch of impatience – "I’m getting quite wet, Gerry.”  

She turned and looked him over. His eyes were glassy and puffed from hay fever, and his nose was red and dripping. His jumper, made heavier by the rain, was already starting to stick to his chest and arms.   

“Quit complaining. Little bit of drizzle never hurt nobody,” Oakley said, hiding an amused grin.   

“You’re just saying that because you’ve got a cigarette this time around. If you didn’t you’d be moaning up a storm yourself right now,” Doyle argued, looking sour.  

Oakley laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you to the pub and warm you up. How's that sound?”  

“Quite nice, when you put it that way,” he said, cheering up.  

She laughed again and together they descended into town.   

The minimalistic high-street consisted of a few quaint shops (dark and shuttered now that the sun had gone down), an idealic little brick church, a petrol pump, and a pub. Oakley guessed the population of the town wasn’t more than a hundred, at most. She walked along the silent empty street with Doyle at her side – his silver hair frizzed and springy from the humidity. She could smell the damp petrichor the rain had left, and she could hear some rowdy signs of life from the pub up ahead. She followed her ears, passing the village fountain, where a group of young children in hooded tops leaned on skateboards and smoked their cigarettes.   

Dusk was deepening toward true-dark when they arrived at the pub. The small brick-building was set apart from the rest of the shops and cafes on the high street. It sat on its own at the edge of another stretch of dark wood, looking terribly weathered and weed-grown.     

“Sorry,” Doyle muttered as they came up to it.   

"What for?" Said Oakley.  

"Not the best, is it."    

“Could be worse. At least it’s got a nice name.”   

Oakley cocked her head, indicating the traditional wooden shingle hanging over the door of the pub – and the lean, gray owl that had been painted onto it.   

“ _The Bonny Owl_ ,” she read aloud. “Sounds fun."    

“If you say so,” Doyle replied flatly. He took his sunglasses off and looked at her. “Gerry, before we go in there, I just wanted to tell you . . ."  

"What?"  

"Nothing. After you.”    

He pushed the door open for her.   

* * *

Inside the pub there was light and laughter. A typical group of rowdy, fat, middle-aged men were packed into the back by the pool tables, dutifully watching a football match. A handful of them swarmed the stools by the bar as well, shouting slurs and clinking their glasses at the television screen hanging above the drinks-shelf.    

The pub had apparently been modernized sometime in the mid-fifties, from the look of it. The traditional Englishness had been combined with dingy stainless steel and glass. A taxidermy badger had been placed in the corner, too – it's stuffed head forever still, its vacant eyes staring out at the dim and smoky room.     

The tables in the middle-section of the pub were populated mostly by pale young men with longish hair and ruddy complexions. A pair of older men were playing a chess game at one of the booths. Three others were playing darts back by the restrooms.   

Oakley could smell them each individually. Their swelter was just one of the many smells permeating the bittersweet air of the pub. She could smell the old beer and ale that had been spilt on the floor and tables from hundreds of glasses. She could smell the ill-functioning dishwasher in the back kitchen and the mold growing in the rafters of the ceiling. But most of all, she could smell the fresh chips cooking in the fryers.   

"Man, I'm starving." She said.   

“Shall I order us some food then?” Doyle asked her, indicating the bar with a small nod. “Maybe some wine? Which do you prefer, red or white?”      

“Does it have to be wine?”      

“This is a special occasion."      

"I'm really not in the mood for anything fancy." Oakley said. "Tell you what – I’ll get the drinks and the food, you just find us a nice place to sit. What'll you have?"  

Doyle skimmed the short pub menu written above the bar. "Tomato and basil soup, please."     

She nodded and watched him slink away towards the empty tables. When she had the drinks, she followed his musk to the back of the pub, where it was darker and quieter. He had seated himself at one of the small, padded booths by the wall, and was now leaning back against the cushions in a way that would have indicated relaxation, had it not been for the scowl on his face.       

_Perpetually scowling,_ thought Oakley, amused by the contradiction of expression and body language.       

She swept over to the booth and set the drinks down in front of him.      

"Here you are, sir,” she said, pretending to be a waitress.       

"What did you get?"  

"Got myself a steak and kidney pudding." She informed him. "Should be up in a half hour, along with your soup."        

"I was referring to the drinks, actually."  

"Oh. A lager for you. Whiskey for me."   

She sat down across from him, noting how sticky the tattered black wooden table was.  

“Scottish whiskey, eh?” Doyle said, eyeing her glass with mild incredulity. “Rather brave of you. Have you ever had Scottish whiskey before?"      

"Nope. But, when in Rome . . . "      

Oakley took a swig of her drink. Regret came instantly.   

The whiskey tasted purely of harsh, burning alcohol, and right away she wanted to gag it back up. Her cheeks bulged. She looked to Doyle for help, and saw a sly, knowing little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. With an angry gurgle, she shook her head, choked down the whiskey, and said "Ah! Tastes like a delicious house-fire." Then, she erupted into a fit of coughing and sputtering.   

Doyle laughed. "Yes, I probably should have mentioned it before you ordered, but we don't water our whiskey down in this country."      

"That right? Good to know." Oakley wheezed. Just to show him she was up to it, she blinked away the tears and took another, slower, cautious sip of her drink. It took a lot of restraint not to start coughing again. Wincing, she set the glass carefully back down on the coaster-napkin.       

“Here, try some of this.” Doyle said, offering the lager to her.  

The glass was wet, cold and heavy in her hand. She took a quick mouthful of mostly-foam, the muscles in her throat stretching back, sleekly bobbing. Doyle’s eyes bobbed too. He was still studying the supple curve of her neck when she handed the glass back to him.       

He stared at her. His mouth was open a little. Eventually he took the glass back, gazing down at it like it was the holy grail.       

“Good stuff.” Oakley said with a smack of her lips.  

Hazily – “Aye.”  

She waited for him to acknowledge her comment by taking a drink for himself. He continued to stare at the glass.  

“What’s the matter? Aren't you thirsty?" she asked him.     

"Aye." Doyle croaked. She watched him bring the glass to his nose and study the smudge of lipstick she'd left on the rim.      

“Then drink your drink already. Or don't you care that I paid for the thing?"  

Doyle hummed appreciatively into his lager.   

Gradually, the din of the pub faded into ambient background noise.   

Oakley slowly nursed her whiskey, appreciating the ambiance of the secluded booth section. The walls there had been painted in warm and natural shades that brought to mind golden-brown walnuts and red cedar. A beautiful old red lamp hung above the table. In its low, reddish light Doyle’s eyes were strangely soft in the hard planes and angles of his face.       

Oakley watched him drink, waiting for him to say something. The silence stretched, and she decided that one of the things she liked most about him – one of the nice things that set him apart from a lot of the other people she might have gone out drinking with – was that she didn’t have to play any stupid social games with him. She could just sit back and enjoy some peace and quiet for a change.  

"Are you feeling better, Gerry?" Doyle asked her after a few peaceful minutes had passed.   

"Oh yeah. I'm feeling much better." Oakley said with an enthusiastic nod.       

Doyle smiled to himself. "Good. I told you a change of scenery would improve you."      

"I know you did." She smiled at him. Sweetly, not suggestively. "Thanks, man. I mean it. Thank you."      

There was another mellow pause between them, and Oakley used the time to discreetly check her text-messages. There were five from Weller already. More than she usually got from him in a month.   

_1:15pm:_ _I hope you’re having a fun time with your friend. Let me know when you get there. – CH_   

_2:20pm: Just checked out that new BBC show you told me about. Was a bit rubbish. Phone me later so I can tell you about it. – CH_   

_3:45pm: I miss you. Have you arrived yet? Remember to phone me when you do. –CH_   

_5:10pm: Just got home from the store. Got you those chocolates you like. Don’t forget to phone me. –CH_   

_7:37pm: About to go to bed. Phone me, please. xoxo –CH_   

Oakley snorted. It was satisfying to know Weller had finally decided to give her some of his attention again, but at the same time, it annoyed her to think that he had only just _now_ decided she was worthy of it. She toyed for a moment with the idea of showing some of her displeasure in her reply back to him, but she knew it would come off too much like a child sulking.   

Instead she typed into the phone:  

_Got here safe. Real nice place. Can’t call right now, having too much fun. Love you lots! Sleep tight honey-bunny! <3 _  

Quick and to the point. She pressed “send”, turned the phone off ( _I’ll turn it back on in the morning – otherwise he’ll interrupt me tonight_ ) and placed it back in her purse without a second thought.  

When she looked back up she caught Doyle was peeking shyly at her from over the rim of his glass.      

“How’s your fellow, then?” he asked her.   

“Charlie?" She shrugged. "He’s surviving.”  

“Would you like to call him? I could step away for a moment.”  

“Not necessary. Bet you ten to one he’s already asleep by now.”  

Doyle looked pleased. He raised his glass in a subtle salute.     

“To a weekend without the ball and chain,” he said.  

Oakley felt a shiver of delight run through her. "Here, here."  

They touched glasses, sipped their drinks, and indulged in some light, friendly banter. It was nice for Oakley, getting to see Doyle so relaxed and un-rumpled. And it was also nice to see that they knew each other well enough now, had enough shared references, to fall into conversation easily.   

They spoke first about the ride up, and then about past instances of travel. Doyle’s infrequent trips to Paris, Oakley’s great adventure to North Carolina (which involved going to an aquarium with her brothers and then trying seafood for the very first time).     

“Oh my god I got sooo sick,” she said, wiping her eyes and laughing.   

Doyle shook his head in wonder. “And here you are, living in the land of fried fish.”   

“Unfortunately,” she conceded, sounding sheepish. She downed the rest of the whiskey and held out her glass to him. “Round two, please?”   

“Really? You want more of that swill?”   

“I thought you were proud of it.”   

“I am, but I know what it can do to a girl.”   

“I am not a _girl,_ sir. I am a woman.”   

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”   

“I am a hearty Wyoming woman capable of holding her liquor!” she continued with a shallow burp.   

“Charming," Doyle commented dryly.  

“Always. Now, gimme my drinky please.”  

Doyle collected both glasses (even though his was only half empty) and went to the bar. He returned with another round for them both, asking if she had any other stories from her childhood. She told him as much as she could recall. Doyle lounged back in his chair, sipping his drink with guileless grace. Hanging smoothly on her every word.   

Later, Oakley listened with rapt fascination as he gave her a short summary of Scottish history, starting with the arrival of the Roman Empire and ending with the coming vote for Scottish independence.   

“Politics and sex,” said Oakley.   

“Beg pardon?”   

“You leave any conversation running long enough and it always comes down to either politics, or sex. Or religion.” she added as an afterthought.   

“So we’ve come full circle, then.” Doyle said, sipping his lager.   

“No, we only covered politics.”   

“You’re forgetting our game on the bus. That should count for both sex and religion,” Doyle said with cheerful smugness.   

“Hey, you’re right," Oakley said, realizing. "We never did finish that game, did we. Let’s keep playing. Umm – how long since you last shagged someone?”   

Now it was Doyle’s turn to choke on a swallow.  

“Oh _lord._ You’re not going to start all that up again, are you?” he said in a shocked, hoarse tone of voice.   

Oakley flashed him a devilish grin. “Well sure. You promised we would finish it after we got here."  

"No I didn't."  

"You did too. Besides, it's a fun way to pass the time, remember?"  

“For you it's fun. For me it’s embarrassing.”  

Oakley looked at Doyle’s adorably disgruntled face and giggled. "Scruff," she said, patting his hand affectionately. “Don't be that way. You were enjoying it on the bus.”  

Doyle pulled his hand back and folded his arms across his chest in a defiant pout.  

“Alright, okay. Just answer this last question and _then_ it’ll be over.” Oakley said.  

Scowling, Doyle took his pen and drew a near-perfect circle on his coaster-napkin. He held it up.  

"You see this circle? This is my love-life. Completely pointless and totally empty.”  

“Nice." Oakley said in an exaggerated monotone. "But you didn’t answer my question.”  

Doyle slapped the napkin down, annoyed. “I gave you an answer just now."  

"Yeah, a vague answer. Vague answers don't count. I need a detailed answer, scruff."  

"I don’t see why you _need_ a detailed answer. It’s impolite for you to ask about this sort of thing, and it’s impolite for me to talk about it.”   

“Again with the impolite shit? Scruff, we’re not on a bus anymore, we're in a pub. A Scottish pub. When you last shagged someone is a pretty tame topic compared to some of the other stuff that’s being said around here.” Oakley pointed out.   

As if on cue, a loud round of hooting laughter erupted from the other side of the room.  

Doyle's brow darkened with distaste.  

“Fine. I’ll tell you, _if_ you tell me when _you_ last got your bloody leg over. And I don't mean as a wolf. I want the last time you shagged a human being, thank you.”   

“So, like, my last time with Charlie?”  

Either Doyle was doing a poor job of masking his concept for Weller, or he no longer cared about showing it in front of her.  

“Yes. Tell me about your last time with _Charles_. Describe it all in great detail, if you please. No omissions.”  

He spoke these last words with intense, smoking sarcasm. Clearly not expecting her to rise to the challenge. When she started to tell him about the previous night, totally indifferent, as though she were discussing the weather, he immediately put his hand up.  

“Stop. That’s enough.”  

Oakley fell silent while Doyle adjusted himself in the seat. He looked noticeably uncomfortable.  

“Your turn?” Oakley proposed.    

Doyle's mouth twisted into a disgruntled frown. “Fine. The last time I got my leg over was back in March. During one of my gallery shows. Happy?”  

Oakley nodded. “How was it?”  

“The show?”  

“The sex.”  

“Fleeting.” Doyle said, sounding genuinely contrite.   

More nodding. “Where’d it go down? Or, should I said, where did _you_ go down?”  

Doyle's laughter was flat and humorless. “It happened at home, if you must know.”  

Snickering slightly – “On the floor or in the bed?”  

“Don't be rude for the sake of being rude. It puts me off.”  

Oakley waved her hand with an apologetic flourish. “Okay, okay. I'm sorry.” A minute passed. She resumed the interrogation. “So who was she, anyway? Was it your mysterious _Elaaaaaine_ again?” she teased, fluttering her eyelashes at him.  

"No."  

"Who was she, then?"  

"Not telling."  

"Oh come on."  

He shook his head, jaw set, as if no amount of cajoling would ever change his mind.  

"Okay," said Oakley impassively. She stood up.  

Doyle stood up with her, suddenly alert. "Where are you going?"  

"Home." she answered, straightening her purse strap. It was an idle threat but she knew it would work on him.  

"Home? How?"  

"I'll walk."  

A nervous chuckle – "You're not serious. What about the food?"  

She started to walk away.  

"Fine. Off you go then. Have fun hitchhiking back to London in the cold dark rain," Doyle said stubbornly.   

Oakley continued to make a show of exiting slowly. She managed to get all of five steps away before he reached out, grabbed her arm and tried to tug her back to the table.   

"Wait. Wait. Don't leave. I'm sorry, for God's sake. I didn't mean to be – to be so . . ."  

"So _remarkably_ uptight?" Oakley suggested, mocking his rolling _r_ 's.  

His scowl deepened. "I'm just not used to sharing this much." He released her arm and folded himself back into the booth. "Give me a second chance?"  

"Ummmm okay." She sat down and faced him with a dazzling smile. "Whenever you're ready."  

He licked his lips, fussing with a bit of loose thread on his jumper. “Yes, ah, you wanted to know what her name was, I believe."  

"The gallery girl, that's right."  

A beat.   

"Her name was Amanda.” He seemed to decide something for himself, and then added “Hawthorne.”  

“Amanda Hawthorne, huh?"  

"She was the girl from the Polaroid you saw. The one who gave me the guitar."  

Oakley snapped her fingers with a triumphant bark. “Ha! I knew it!" She leaned towards him, suddenly, intensely curious. "Tell me all about her.”  

Doyle looked at Oakley sideways. "Why? It’s not like she was ever especially important to me.”  

“Yeah right. Any girl who’s willing to buy a man a guitar is blatantly crazy about him. And any man who’s willing to accept a guitar from the girl who bought it for him is blatantly crazy about her, too.”  

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disrupt your logic, there, Gerry. Amanda and I broke up more than a decade ago. March was a one off event.” Before she knew it, he was telling her the whole story. “She showed up at the gallery, completely unexpected. We hadn't seen each other for years. We wound up talking and one thing lead to the next and, well . . . I don’t think either of us intended for it to, you know, go in that direction but when it happened we were both smart enough to recognize it for what it was.”  

“Which was what?”  

“A service call, basically.” He took a sip of his lager before realizing Oakley was waiting for more of an explanation. With a sigh, he said “Amanda was between husbands at the time. She came to me because she needed – I don’t know. She needed to feel wanted again, I suppose. And I needed to feel . . . anything. Anything anyone was willing to give me.” He took another drink and swallowed back a grimace. “It was all over very quickly. She didn’t even stay for breakfast.”  

Oakley frowned. “Have you heard from her since?”  

Doyle shook his head.   

“Ever tried calling her? Asking her out somewhere?”  

“Amanda doesn’t work like that. She appears in her own way on her own terms. It’s just how she is.”  

“Independent, huh?”  

“Independent, and very clever.”  

“When did the two of you first meet?"  

"Back in '82. She was twenty-three. I wasn't," Doyle hinted. "She's a professional actress now. Last we talked, she was doing some small-time show on the West End.”  

Oakley dipped her head, impressed. “Cool. How'd you meet her?"  

"We went to the same audition. This was back before art school, you understand. We went to the same audition and sat next to each other, got to talking. There was an instant attraction, I guess. We started dating about a week later. By the end of the month, I’d moved in with her. She had a little flat in Crouch End. A cozy little hole in the wall, really." A haze of nostalgia came into his eyes, and then he was staring past Oakley in a dreamy, despondent sort of way. “I stayed there for nearly a year while I was trying to get my start in acting. It was lovely. The best time of my life, now I think about it.”   

The smile on his face dimmed. In a foggy voice he recounted his relationship with Hawthorne, detailing how they would spend their days together watching cheesy science fiction films, eating late night take-away, and listening to David Bowie records. At one point Hawthorne joined Doyle in his punk phase, experimenting with drugs, dyeing her hair various colors, shaving off the sides of her head, sporting a nose piercing and wearing an all-black wardrobe. And Doyle in turn let her influence him artistically.  

“I remember, we would go to auditions together, and she would give me acting tips. I never got a part of course, but she did. More than once. She had a face of getting parts.”  

To illustrate his point, he took his pen back out and started sketching on the other coaster-napkin. Drawing Hawthorne from memory. When he was finished he passed the coaster-napkin over to Oakley. The woman he had sketched out in blotchy ink had long, fair hair, heart-shaped lips, and elegant, slim facial features. Oakley thought she looked like a classic, silver-screen starlet.   

“Wow,” said Oakley.  

“I like to think I do her better justice than that fuzzy Polaroid you saw.”  

“I meant wow to your sketch.” Oakley clarified.  

Doyle glanced away bashfully. “Yes, well, some of it’s in the subject, you know. Amanda had the most amazing eyes. And the most striking on-stage presence I’ve ever seen. I used to tell her that she looked like one of Hitchock’s blondes. Something of a cross between Tippy Hendren and Grace Kelly. She told me it was the sweetest compliment she’d ever gotten.”  

Oakley smiled warmly, although underneath it all she felt a minor twinge of jealousy knowing that this woman (a figment in the form of a wet coaster-napkin) had once spent actual, intimate time with Doyle in his younger, happier years.   

"I have to ask," Oakley said. "What happened with her? Why'd you guys break up?"  

Doyle rubbed his forehead tiredly.   

"Like I said, Amanda was clever. Clever and analytical. I guess you could say she was more of a scientist than a true artist. She approached her life and her work in a very scientific way. Always trying to solve the next problem.” he reflected. “I think she believed there was a formula to acting and art. To life in general. I think she believed that A plus B invariably equaled C, and when it didn’t she would get frustrated. I think she expected order all the time, and when she didn’t get it, it made her angry.”   

Oakley nodded. Order was something Hawthorne and Weller apparently had in common.  

"At any rate," Doyle said, sounding a little bitter now, "By the end it was all wearing a bit thin. For her, not for me. I was orbiting the moon for her, but she said I was too distant. She said I kept things from her. Technically, she was right. I never let the true me out around her, not really. It was all an act. I think she expected me to confess myself, though, and when I wouldn't I became one of the problems she couldn't solve. After a while she got fed up and left to find a less difficult man to be with. Someone who would open up to her a little more easily. That's my speculation, of course. Her last two husbands were utter ponces," he finished under his breath.   

Oakley polished the whisky off. Warm fire bellowed up from her stomach to her throat.   

"Well, hell. That fucking sucks, scruff," she said. "I'm real sorry, man."  

Doyle was shaking his head. "It's all right. To be honest, I have no idea what she saw in me. We weren't exactly a good fit. She was this glamorous creature and I was . . . Me. Just me. Why she chose just-me I'll never know. There were certainly more attractive men available to her at the time."  

"You're attractive." Oakley insisted.  

Doyle looked down and started fidgeting with the corner of the coaster-napkin.   

"I'm not really," he mumbled.  

"Yes you are. Take it from me. I work at an airport so I see a lot of faces. Yours has character."  

"Mine has a Roman nose, is what mine has. Damn thing roams all over my face."  

Oakley snorted back a chortle. Sweetly, she said, "I like your Roman nose."   

Doyle looked at her then with a glad, friendly smile that further softened the sharpness of his features and made his blue eyes shine. But the shine and the smile quickly faded, and suddenly Oakley could see just how deep a wound Doyle's memories of Hawthorne were for him, and she had a certain understanding of why. It could be immensely difficult to keep such a big and potentially terrifying secret from the person you loved. To always feel on guard around them. To live with the constant fear that you might one day be found out and consequently shunned for who you really were.   

It could put a lot of strain on a person.  

“You ever think about showing her your pelt while you were still together?” Oakley ventured.   

Doyle gave her a slanted, half-cynical smile. “I considered it. For all of three seconds. Then I realized I wasn't brave enough. You see, I couldn't bear to see her scream.”  

“You don't know for sure that that's how she would have reacted.”  

“Yes I do. With some people, you can just tell. You look at them and you think, if I show them, they'll run away screaming.”  

_Charlie wouldn’t scream. Would he?_    

Oakley pushed the thought out of her head.  

“You know, it doesn’t matter if you showed her your pelt or not. No one says you have to share _everything_ with everyone all the time.” Oakley said earnestly.  

Doyle raised his eyebrows at her, surprised. "May I have that in writing from you, please, miss let's-play-interview?"  

Oakley glowered at him. “What I mean is, it’s okay to have a secret. Lots of people have secrets. Secrets that are way worse than _oh by the way I’m a werewolf_. Some guys are serial killers or, like, pedophiles or whatever. You’re a good guy, a nice guy, and a hell of a catch, if you don’t mind me saying so.”  

Doyle’s cheeks went subtly pink. Oakley kept going.  

“Really. You’re smart, sophisticated, down to Earth. Multi-talented. It’s Amanda’s loss for not taking any of that at face value.” she assured him, trying to sound as comforting as she could.   

With a thankful grunt, Doyle crumpled the coaster-napkin sketch of Hawthorne into a wadded ball and tossed it under the table. There was a finality to the gesture that Oakley picked up on right away.  

“I'm guessing that means game-over now, huh." she chuckled.  

"Did my answers satisfy you?”  

“Yeah. Thanks for humoring me.”  

"Any time." Doyle said warmly.   

They drank in silence until the bartender flagged Oakley over to retrieve their food.   

 

* * *

_[Edward Gibson sags into the bar, exhausted._ _He is in his mid-forties, ordinary-looking. Lines of experience etched across his face._ _He flags the bartender over with a brisk flick of is wrist, and curtly orders a top-up. While he waits, he drums his fingers on the counter in loud little bursts._ _There's a glum impatience about him that can be seen when he does this – as if something isn’t happening quite fast enough. As if he’s distantly aware he’s running out of time.]_   

  

Edward Gibson was not looking at the dark-haired woman when he stumbled drunkenly away from the bar. His eyes were focused on the foamy surface of the pint the bartender had just handed him. He was trying very carefully not to spill it as he walked, but just then it was difficult to keep good balance.   

His shift at the Conall Animal Hospital had ended only an hour before, but he had already had three pints since then. The day had been a long and stressful one. If he could manage his way back to the pool table where his friends were waiting for him, he would finish telling them about how Madison Brenham – who had come in to have her female black persian fixed – had stupidly asked for 'neutering' instead of 'spaying', because it was cheaper. And after that, maybe he would rant a little about how that idiot, Angus McClain, had decided to feed his seven-year-old terrier Cloby Jack cheese and leftover chocolate donuts instead of dog food because the dog apparently "likes it better than that god-awful canned shite".  

And of course tomorrow there was that follow-up appointment with old man Fergus' pregnant mare.   

Gibson sighed.   

Lately the unconscious realization that his life was almost halfway over had steadily begun to creep up on him. Hoping to put the words “midlife” and “crisis” out of his mind, Gibson had quickly established a routine of going to the pub after each shift with his friends. But so far getting blind stinking drunk every day hadn't helped him any. Mostly because some small part of him already knew that, while he could ignore the progression of time all he wanted, he could never actually reverse it.   

Sooner or later, he would have to face the facts. He wasn't exactly a young man anymore, and he had accomplished very little in his forty-eight years of existence. Nothing amazing was ever going to happen to him. He was doomed to live out the rest of his days in Conall as a divorced veterinary assistant, slicing off cat testicles and delivering stillborn foals until the day he finally dropped dead.    

Gibson was still thinking about this when he felt something wiry and solid bump hard against his shoulder. He saw a splash of foam leave his pint glass and drivel down his hand in slow motion.     

Anger coiled in his stomach. His head spun.    

"Fucks sake, watch where you're bloody go–"   

Gibson saw the woman's face and the words shriveled up in his mouth. She was young. Plain but pretty with nice dark hair and big lips. Her skin, though, was the most unnatural shade of white Gibson had ever seen. It looked almost fake, like the grey-pink paint applied to wooden mannequins.   

And her _eyes_ –   

Her eyes were a very dark brown, like roadside mud after the rain. Gibson could have sworn he saw a flicker of something in them. Something yellow and shiny and familiar. A will-o-the-wisp dancing at the edge of a black forest. Then it was gone, and Gibson was left questioning both his sight, and how well he thought he could hold his drink.    

The dark-haired woman glanced down at his dripping wrist. Realization crept onto her ghastly-pale face.   

"Aw, jeez. I'm sorry about that, buddy." She said in a twangy American lilt.   

The words sounded perfectly innocuous, but Gibson, with a sixth sense that he hadn’t even been aware he possessed, heard a shiftiness in them.   

He looked at the woman again and in his drunken haze saw it clearly this time – a kind of hollow emptiness in her eyes. It looked as though they were not eyes at all, but a pair of black holes hiding something else. Something Gibson could only just make out. Something that slithered and glittered like tarnished brass.   

_The low light reflecting on her face_ , he decided. _It’s creating a whatever-you-call-it. Optical illusion or something like that._   

"You want some help, man?” The woman offered.   

She started to mop at Gibson’s hand with his coaster-napkin, standing just close enough now for him to really see the light glimmering in her eyes. It twisted his stomach to look directly into them, but that was something he found he couldn't quite help but do. The woman’s eyes were truly hypnotic. They pulled him in, like a snake's eyes. Totally alien, but beautiful too, in an eerie kind of way.   

The woman continued to pad his wrist tenderly with the napkin. Then she stepped back and flashed him a toothy, apologetic smile.    

“I’m real sorry about that,” she said, motioning to Gibson’s glass.  

Gibson looked at her teeth and then her eyes again, and was suddenly, unaccountably sure the woman was dangerous. He yanked his arm away from her, sending a ring of ale splattering through the air, and retreated to the pool table. Burying his face in his drink, he waited until he was sure the dark-haired woman was gone. When he finally glanced back up and scanned the pub for her, she was nowhere to be seen.    

One of his friends, Mark Macmillan, tapped him on the shoulder.  

“Oi, mate." Macmillan said, pointing a pool-cue at him. "You alright?”   

Gibson started with a small shout. He turned to face Macmillan. He had to crane his head back to make eye-contact. Macmillan was over six feet tall.  

“What? What?” Gibson said, jumpy.   

“You alright, mate?”  

“Oh. Oh, aye. It's nothing. Just the drink. Stuff’s done my head in,” he told Macmillan resolutely.  

 

* * *

 

_[Grenadine Oakley, quickly returning from the bar with hot food, walking now past the group of seedy, slovenly men at the pool table. Ignoring the weight of their eyes pressing into her, following her across the room. They are not the only ones looking._   

_Ahead, Ian Doyle is watching her steadily from the table, a faint smile on his face. Oakley smiles back at him, secretly wondering what it looks like when they are both at the booth together, sitting across from each other, looking into each other’s eyes and talking about the intimate details of one another's lives.]_    
  

They made quick work of the food. Afterward, Doyle took what was left away and came back with another round of drinks in fresh glasses. The warmth behind Oakley's eyes and in her chest seemed to bloom the more she drank. As the evening stretched on, she came out of herself enough to notice the way Doyle was looking at her. Not lecherously, but with a good healthy appreciation (an artist’s appreciation, she concluded) for the way she looked in the white cotton dress she was wearing. She was glad she'd worn it, and she was glad of his attention too. It felt good to be admired in a-no-strings-attached sort of way.  

The evening wore on. People gradually started filing out the pub. The football match was over, and the bartender was getting ready to close up for the night. Oakley sat with Doyle and drank until only a few stragglers remained, playing a final round of pool.   

“You know, I’m very fond of you, Gerry.” Doyle’s tone was almost offhand when he said it, but only almost.   

“Thanks,” she said, unsure of what else to say.    

“We have a pretty good laugh when we’re together, don’t we?”   

“Absolutely.”   

“And you like me?”  

“I do.”  

“More than Charles?”  

“Not more than. The same." Seeing some squelched emotion on his face, she added gingerly "Well – the same but different. You know what I mean, scruff.”  

Doyle nodded. His gaze drifted past her shoulder to the door.   

“We should go soon,” he said. “It’s gotten quite late.”   

As he stood she heard his knees crack.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, heading for the men’s room.  

“Sure. Take your time,” Oakley replied, gathering up the drink glasses.  

 

* * *

_[Gibson, sitting haplessly by the pool table, picks and peels at a bandaged cat-scratch on his wrist. Nurses the pint. Ruminates on missed opportunities and regrettable decisions as his friends play pool behind him.]_   

  

It was nearly an hour later when Gibson finally saw the dark-haired woman again. By then he had almost completely forgotten about her (the drink had helped some with that), and it startled him to see her pale face again so suddenly.   

She was back by one of the booths, talking to a tall, skeletal man who was turning towards the restrooms. Her father, probably.   

Gibson watched the woman rise smoothly and make her way towards the bar with some empty glasses.  

Like a cat, she did not blink. Her glassy eyes passed Gibson over as she crossed the room – the same empty look on her face ( _empty, empty like a mask_ ) – and Gibson came to the same strange conclusion that she was dangerous. His head swam for a moment. His immediate reflex was to drink more. He took a large wet gulp of his pint, hoping it would help ease the dizziness, and the unsettling feeling of alarm and excitement in his chest.   

It didn’t.  

 

* * *

_[Oakley, fatigued and slouching under the pub lintel, yawns happily. The color is high on her cheeks, and she wobbles a little with the buzz of the mildly inebriated. And the excitement of someone who knows that, shortly, she will be going home – not her real home or even her home away from home, but a_ new _home – with one of her own kind.]_   

    
  

Oakley waited for Doyle by the door. Nearby, the bartender had finished wiping down the bar and was now sweeping the area by the pool table. The men there were zipping up their jackets and getting ready to go.   

Out of the corner of her eye Oakley noticed one of them looking at her. His face was carved with deep, troubled lines, and his hands (they looked like the blunt, capable hands of a surgeon) were locked around his pint glass. If she squinted, she could see small callouses on the tips of his fingers through the amber beer.   

A minute or two went by. She saw the man’s lidded eyes widen. Suddenly he straitened up, and pointedly looked away. Oakley thought she recognized him as the man she had bumped into earlier in the evening. She was about to go over and say something when Doyle reappeared and started herding her out the door.  

They came outside to find the rain had tapered off. The town was quiet, and the air was cool on their skin. Doyle took a deep breath and sighed into the night. He looked a little tipsy in a red-nosed, masculine sort of way, but otherwise put together. They walked up the high-street side by side again, not talking much. Waiting for the world to stop making unstable motions under their feet.  

At one point Doyle smiled up at the wide black sky and said “Vincent, where did your stars go?” The smile slipped a little. “Sometimes I think I’m destined to die alone.”  

Oakley felt the weight of his admission and cringed. It pained her to hear something so bleak after such a nice, relaxing time. She tried to play off her discomfort by making a joke.   

"Man, and I thought _I_ was the depressed one." Doyle did not laugh like she thought he would, and she grew suddenly solemn. “Jesus, scruff. You don’t _really_ think you're going to die alone, do you?”  

Doyle said nothing and gazed longingly into the sky. In his eyes she read traces of loneliness and sadness, and desire too. It was a moving expression on any man’s face, but on his it was especially impactful.  

Oakley’s voice was gentle but firm. “Ian, you’re not going to die alone.”  

Doyle's eyes settled back on her. “Most old dogs do.”  

“But _you_ won’t because I’ll be there with you.”  

“Yes, we’ll be on the same bus as it goes over the cliff, knowing my luck. Thelma and Louise, but with a lot more fur,” Doyle chuckled lamely.   

“Seriously, scruff.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll be there. You’re stuck with me now. I’m your new, permanent pack-mate.”  

He brightened slightly and they shared a fast hug. At the same time a car sped by. The yellow indicator caused their shadows – gaunt, wolfish – to appear and disappear on the concrete in front of them.   

Oakley’s eyes, strangely smoky in the fading light, dwindling on her shadow, caught the motion of Doyle’s thin, bony hand stretching out. His fingers were cold against hers, and the touch made her focus snap back to him. They hadn't touched in over a month. At least, not in a way where Doyle had been the one to initiate the contact. Suddenly she realized how much she had missed it. Actual, consensual contact with him. She wondered if that was an American trait, expecting everyone else on the planet to be as touchy-feely as she was and then feeling let down when they weren't.    

Oakley squeezed Doyle's hand once, and was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t try to draw away from her, but instead squeezed back. His long fingers folded so easily over hers. She tried not to let herself think about how gentle his touch was. How he held her hand like it was something perfect and precious.   

They carried on walking. The pub faded into the gathering gloom.   

When they reached the forest Doyle casually let go of Oakley’s hand and slipped his entire arm around her. Delighted, Oakley moved closer to him, and they walked for a while in the half-hug, matching steps. Then he let go and backed off, looking slightly rueful again.    

They took a different route back to the cabin. Along the way Oakley tried to stir up another round of conversation, but Doyle seemed content to while away the rest of the walk in companionable silence.     

In the distance, the sawbill voiced its lonely cry out on the lake again.   

 

* * *

 

_[Outside, a strong breeze gasps around the cabin, making the walls creak and the eaves whistle. The wooden porch swing rocks on its hinges as Oakley and Doyle pass through the doorway and switch the lamps on._   

_Soon a lazy curl of smoke is rising from the chimney._   

_Inside, a blaze crackles over the logs in the stone fireplace. Oakley kneels in front of it, smoking a cigarette. Her smoke floats up the chimney with the rest. After a little while she flicks the butt away to the coals, and rotates herself so she can see both the fire and Doyle on the settee._ _For a long time they sit in silence, looking at each other in the light of the dying fire. Doyle with his troubled expression, Oakley with her contented one._ _]_   

   

Doyle had managed to twist his body into a weird, tense, uncomfortable bunch of angles on the settee. His scowl had come back. Oakley had no idea why. She got up and came over to the settee, sat down on the far edge, and carefully slid across the cushions toward him. Stretching to match his height, she slipped an arm around his shoulders, trying to recreate the half-hug from their walk. The behavior was bold, but the intent was harmless.   

Doyle's entire body stiffened. It was clear he couldn't bring himself to pull away.    

They fell into further silence while the logs in the fireplace burned down to a dusky red. Doyle was pensive and still, his face hard like stone. Oakley started to trace the profile of his hawkish nose against the wavering light, counting the wrinkles etched around his eyes as she went.   

Gradually, the heady smell of fresh smoke ( _Or maybe something else?_ ) lulled him into comfort, and some of the wrinkles disappeared. Once or twice Oakley saw his eyes flick in her direction – but before she got the chance to meet them, fast as lightning they were back on the fireplace again. Almost as if Doyle was testing to see if her attention would remain on him.    

In the fireplace the flames snapped at the pockets of pitch and leaped up the chimney.     

Curious, Oakley scooted closer to Doyle and rested her chin on his bony shoulder, matching her pose from the train. She wanted to see how he would react now that the drink and the atmosphere had mellowed him a little.    

Out of nowhere, he turned his head and pinned her with his lidded gaze. She inhaled sharply. His eyes were a shimmering, golden hue and full of some sort of dark need that Oakley wasn't quite ready to identify. She had no choice but to look away.   

After a minute Doyle's gravelly Glaswegian voice drifted over her.     

"Gerry, I . . . I think I'd like to tell you something . . ."   

"I'm listening."   

His gaze dropped to her lips and she unconsciously ran her tongue along them.      

"Earlier today, I . . ." Doyle sighed softly, his voice deep and ragged with –    

_Lust? No. Couldn't be. You're jumping to conclusions._     

Doyle's expression turned hollow. “I have to tell you something. Earlier, while we were traveling, I – I  committed an awful indiscretion against you."   

"Sorry?"    

_All that damn needless fancy-talk._    

“On the train. I put my hand on your leg, like this.” The soft weight of his spindly fingers pressed gently onto her upper thigh. “It was only for a moment,” he clarified earnestly. “I’m sorry.”   

Oakley took some time to think about it.   

“Well?" Doyle pressed. "Aren’t you going to tell me off?” His hand was still on her leg.    

Oakley shrugged. “Probably not. You do it on purpose?”   

Doyle removed his hand and hung his head.   

“Okay. So you did it on purpose.” Oakley said. “Big deal. Not like you tried to kiss me or anything.”   

“What? No. Of course not. I would never –“    

Oakley put her hand up and he fell silent.    

“Ian, man, relax. I know you're good people. You touched my leg. Whatever. I mean, you _do_ know how wolves say hello, don’t you?”   

Doyle stiffened. “Yes, I'm familiar with wolf, erm, greeting habits. Thank you.”    

“So what’s the issue then? Wolves are all about touching. Who cares. I’ve got my arm around your shoulder right now. Do _you_ care?”   

“No, I . . . I rather like it, actually.” Doyle confessed.   

“And we held hands on the walk back.”  

“Yes, but that was different. You were awake on the walk back. On the train, you weren’t. I betrayed your trust.”   

“Look, it’s only a problem if one of us makes it a problem, and I’m not making it a problem.”   

“No,” Doyle said softly. Thankfully. “I won’t do it again, Gerry.”   

“Aw hell, you can touch my leg all you want. Just a leg, anyway.” said Oakley. For fun, she added “Could try to touch me _anywhere_ you want. I don’t like it I’ll just take your scrawny ass down no problem, if it makes you feel any better.”   

Doyle broke off with a small, delirious-sounding laugh. “You probably could.”   

“Damn strait.”    

"I think we should go to bed," Doyle said with a shy, lazy grin. A second or two passed. Oakley saw his yellow eyes widen in stunned realization. "Oh! No – I meant – _Sleep_. We should go to _sleep_. In – In our separate – our separate beds," he stammered, and hastily looked away.    

Oakley felt her cheeks burn along with the fire. She blamed it on the whiskey.   

"Sure, we can go to sleep now, if that's what you want," she said.    

Doyle didn't move. He was blushing furiously, and Oakley could feel the heat emanating from his thin frame even as he backed away from her. She thought she could see something subtly building in him, too. A kind of hungry frisson in his expression.     

Just then the logs beneath the mantle collapsed in a shower of hot sparks. Doyle jumped up, practically ran to the fireplace, selected two hefty logs from the pile on the hearth and laid them on the dwindling fire. They caught immediately, but Doyle continued to scramble the embers with the wrought-iron poker.   

Oakley watched him from the settee and frowned. When it was clear he wasn't coming back to her, she decided to retire to her bedroom.    

Less than ten minutes later, as she was slipping out of her dress, she heard a small knock at the door. She found Doyle standing behind it. Before she had a chance to say anything, he thrust a pile of clean sheets and an oversized, pine-green dressing gown over the threshold at her. Confused, she took the pile awkwardly out of his arms, and watched him hurry away back down the blackened hall.   

She found his dressing gown dwarfed her, but she liked the feel of the silk sliding pleasantly against her naked skin. She could also tell that the dressing gown had not been washed in months. Doyle’s scent clung to the sleeves and collar in a wonderful way. The blue-eyed wolf hidden in wintergreen aftershave and fabric softener and other old things like vellum and parchment. That was pleasant, too.  

She did not bother with her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she prepped for bed. She already knew she looked like a kid playing dress-up in Doyle's dressing gown. It made her feel giddy to wear it.  

Back in her room, Oakley worked quickly to strip the bedding and put on the clean sheets Doyle had given her. Then she cracked the window open an inch, removed the dressing gown, set it and her dress neatly aside on the floor, and slipped into bed. The open-window provided her with the soothing sounds of the nearby lake. Light, lapping waves, rustling reeds, and elsewhere – a babbling stream.    

Oakley dozed, replaying the day in her head. She was happy Doyle had invited her up to the cabin. For the first time, she felt truly close to him. 


	12. Chapter 12

**12.**

**SEPTEMBER - Last Quarter**

 

"I was so unused to my own skin that to take off all my clothes involved a kind of flaying.”

― [Angela Carter](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/27500.Angela_Carter), [The Tiger's Bride](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/26934353)

 

“Wolf! Right here and now!”

― [Peter Straub](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6941.Peter_Straub), [_The Talisman_](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3324421)  

 

“Wolves don't hunt singly, but always in pairs. The lone wolf was a myth.”    
― [John Fowles](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10039.John_Fowles), [_The Magus_](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1816475)

 

 

_[Saturday, September 6th. Night.]_

_[In the corner bedroom, Oakley lays between the fresh cotton sheets, suffused with a calm equanimity. Her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. The moonlight filtering in through the curtains illuminates and darkens the planes of her face._  

 _She sleeps unburdened for the first time in years._  

 _Elsewhere in the dark cabin, Ian Doyle dreams he is behind Oakley, thrusting. Filling her up. His greedy hands grab at her bare skin, his lips kiss her neck like it gives him life. Heavy breathing, mouth open just enough to leave a damp trail._  

 _She slides back against him, a willing participant. The rush of passion is wonderful. But it is only a dream.]_     

 

When Doyle woke, sweaty and hard in the framed cabin bed, he had to bite back a miserable sob. Oakley was only a hallway away, and he did not want to wake her. But he could smell her on him, in the air, through the door. The smell was putting thoughts in his head. Causing the arousal to churn, thick and hot at the base of him.    

Stifling another sob, Doyle rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. His muscles were taut, and he was stiffer than stone below the sheets. In another minute he would start to tent them.   

A familiar voice spoke up. The one from the train.   

 _You're going to need to deal with that, you realize._   

Doyle nodded to himself. Beside him on the night-stand was his sketchbook and pen. He fumbled in the groggy dark to grab them – only bothering with the bedside lamp after the fact. He lay with the sketchbook on his stomach and conjured scenarios with Oakley. When he was finished he touched his pen to his lips, considering. He'd filled three pages with her bare body, strategically placed like a center-fold model in wonderful, vulgar positions. Warmed by a mad possessiveness, he thumbed back and forth between them until the pages grew soft around the edges from the sweat of his hands.   

 _She's mine like this, all mine, but oh, what I wouldn't give for her to leap off this page and – wait. No._    

Doyle squeezed his eyes shut. Drawing hadn’t helped. If anything, it had exacerbated the problem. 

He set the sketchbook and pen aside and put his hands behind his head.  

"Fucking fuck." 

Under the sheets, his cock was still swollen. He repressed a shudder, thinking fast. There were limited options.   

On the one hand, he could try and go back to sleep – and risk having another dream. On the other hand, he could tip-toe down to the restroom for another cold shower – and risk waking Oakley in the process. He could just imagine it; turning off the water, toweling away the goose-pimples, and opening the restroom door to find Oakley standing in the hallway, staring at him with her clever eyes.  

Her face at first full of confusion – and then sudden, disgusted understanding.  

No, having a shower was out of the question. Doyle would have to take care of himself right there in the bed, with his hands.   

"Bloody hell, I can't do that _,"_ he whispered with a sharp bolt of reproach. "It would be inappropriate. Entirely the wrong time, entirely the wrong place."    

But he was out of other options, and the urge to relieve himself was already becoming too much of a burden to ignore.  

Doyle threw an elbow over his eyes and let out a tortured groan. He’d spent the entire day with Oakley. He was supposed to be sick of her by now. Not picturing her grinding down on him, soft and sweet and wet.    

Doyle's mind stalled on the image for a moment. He could almost feel it; Oakley, coming apart around him, back-arching, shuddering, shaking. Her beautiful face screwed up, her golden eyes closed, her dark hair stuck to her sweaty face. Collapsing on top of him, letting him nuzzle and lick her neck as she fell asleep.   

Doyle gasped. He wanted so badly to taste the salt on her skin.  

The train-voice laughed in his head.   

 _You're doing it again, mate._   

Doyle tossed and turned under the sheets, praying for an unattractive thought. Something pure and disquieting. Even the most stereotypical of mental turn-offs would do.  

"Come on, I'll take anything. A game of football. Some elderly nuns. Piers Morgan sunbathing. Mum in a fucking girdle."  

When none of those worked, he grappled for fiercer thoughts. The garish gore of Francis Bacon's paintings. The confusing mess of Giger's dark sculptures. But it was useless.       

 _You're going mad,_ the train-voice chided. _Stop trying to fight it. Have a wank. Take the edge off._    

“No.” Doyle said firmly.  

He could almost _see_ the train-voice shrug at him.   

 _Fine. Have it your way. Stay up all night with your stiffy and see how Gerry likes you in the morning when you’re too fucked and tired to hunt._    

Doyle sat upright, shaken.  

How _would_ the hunt go tomorrow if he didn’t take care of himself now?   

He would be exhausted, yes, but what else? Would he be too preoccupied with his urges to pay attention to what Oakley had to teach him? Would she get annoyed if he didn't pay full-attention at all times?  

And what would happen when it came time to put his pelt on and be the wolf around her? He had barely been able to control himself on the train, when he was a fully-clothed man. He had no idea how he might react to Oakley once he was a wolf. His animal instincts might take over. They could cause an incident. An embarrassing one. The last thing Doyle wanted was to wind up trying to take advantage of Oakley again while her defenses were down. One time was forgivable. But twice?  

 _You’ll lose her trust for good, I reckon_ , supplied the train-voice.    

Doyle squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. The train-voice was right. His lust was a liability. He had to dull it.  

"Fine," he said quietly, grudgingly, to no one but himself. "Physical stimulation it is then. But I'm only doing it for Gerry's sake."  

 _Sure, mate. Absolutely. You're a stellar friend and all._     

Doyle drew in a long, calming breath, and fumbled with himself in the dark. Another long breath as he began to tug gently. Short, soft strokes born of hesitation and reluctance.   

A new voice – the sensible voice of his conscience – warned him to stop. 

 _This is crazy. She's going to hear you. She's going to smell you! Remember that little demonstration she gave at the restaurant? What had she called it? Love residue?_    

Doyle ignored the little flutter of fear in his belly and kept going, quietly building up speed. There were so many other smells there in the cabin and outside in the woods. Oakley would overlook this one disgrace – this single breach of etiquette and decency – he was fairly certain of it. And besides, he needed this. He had been working so hard to keep himself on point. He'd earned a break.    

Doyle pushed the fear and self-loathing aside and thought about Oakley and the dream. Centering first on the initial sensations. Touch, taste, smell. He concentrated on her lips (soft, plump, wet). Her smooth legs (delicious and damp at the inside of the thighs). He wondered what she sounded like – really sounded like – in the throws of passion. He did his best to imagine her moaning. Wolf-like. One long, singing, quivering sound that announced the height of her satisfaction.     

His conscience again, persistent in it's sudden moral protest – _This is wrong, this is bad. She's young. So young._    

"Oh God yes she is." Doyle hissed, licking his lips. All he saw was Oakley – slick and hot and tight around him. Oakley – looking over her shoulder at him with her cheeks flushed and her eyelids half closed. Oakley – sighing little sounds of pleasure.   

Mouthing the words _"Harder, Ian. Faster, Ian. More, Ian."_     

Pumping himself with turgid eagerness, Doyle let out a low rumble. That was all he wanted – to hear her say his name like that, on the tail end of a moan.    

Doyle bit his lip and choked back a grunt as stars danced behind his eyes. 

The aftermath left him sprawled out on the bed, somehow above the sheets, heavy lidded and hot. With a dry gulp, he scanned his mind for Oakley. To his despair, she remained – clear and unbroken, still as troubling and sensual a thought as ever. If anything, the act of self-release had made her even more prominent in his head.   

He adjusted the sheets, sat upright in the bed and touched at the pool of stickiness splashed across his stomach. Scowling, he used a tissue from his nightstand to wipe himself clean, and tossed it aside in disgust. A rueful smile touched his lips. He was afflicted, well and truly.    

He mumbled to himself in the dark. "That's done fuck all, hasn't it."   

 _But of course_ , sneered the train-voice with contemptuous delight.  

Suddenly revolted, Doyle stood up and walked, carefully but steadily, to the window and pushed it further open. He leaned against the wall and pressed his face to the sill. Outside were the open fields, the placid lake, the great green forest. The clouds had disappeared, leaving behind a huge moon hanging above the treetops. A myriad of stars littered the black like pinholes in a dark blanket.  

For a brief moment the wolf stirred, and Doyle's senses became alive and keen. His ears jingled with a symphony of noises. He could hear the groans and creaks of the cabin, the drip of the bathroom faucet, the rustles and thumps of the downstairs curtains blowing in the wind. He could hear a host of crickets warming up for what was probably the last of their nighttime concerts, now that the weather had started to turn cooler. He could hear the noise of croaking toads and nocturnal birds alighting on the nearby trees. He could hear the night and all it's life roused and moving in the black.   

Then the sounds faded. 

Doyle gazed ahead, feeling more intensely himself than he had in years. He was not yet sure if he liked it. When he finally returned to the bed, an eternity later it seemed, he slept fitfully.  

* * *

_[Sunday, September 6th. Early morning.]_

_[Sometime in the night a warm front comes up from the south. In the morning the open windows let in a fresh Scottish breeze. Small birds peep to one another in the breaking light.]_    

 

Oakley came awake in the little bedroom the next morning bursting with sizzling energy. She wanted to get her pelt on as quickly as possible and sink her teeth into something wet.     

She got up, threw on some under-clothes, wrapped Doyle's dressing down around herself, and tiptoed out of her room.   

The bathroom at the end of the hall was comfortable and reminded her of home. Small and rural. But it made little sense to bother with primping now – not when she was about to put her pelt on.  

She bypassed the bathroom in favor of the bedroom where Doyle slept. Inside there was the lingering stale smell of rain from the open window (it reminded Oakley of rotten vegetables), and something else, something more recent, obscured by the staleness. A subtle, bleachy smell, like pancake batter mixed with ammonia.  

 _Cum_ , though Oakley. She attributed the smell to the German who sometimes stayed at the cabin, and left it at that.    

Doyle was still asleep in the small twin-bed by the wall.  

Clutching the neck of her dressing-gown, Oakley crept in and positioned herself at his bedside. She had never seen him asleep before. He looked peaceful in the solitude of morning. Younger somehow, and delicate. His grey locks were tousled boyishly across his forehead. His sharp eyebrows were relaxed. The skin around his eyes was softer. So were the fine wrinkles at the corners of his lips.  

Oakley shuffled closer, her pale feet peeping from under the hem of the dressing gown. She spent a few minutes gazing down at Doyle with quiet curiosity. It occurred to her that she hadn't been this close to someone who wasn't Weller for six years. She was fascinated by the difference of him. His scent, his shape, the soft planes of his face. Doyle had a sinewy, almost feminine sleekness that was refreshingly different from Weller's muscular solidity. It was exciting to think she was about to see Doyle in his pelt. What would he look like, she wondered. Would he be large? Small? Groomed? Shaggy? Despite the almost-foppish-majesty he held as a man, Oakley couldn't see him as one of the little near-lap-dogs – the refined wolves with the pristine pelts and the graceful speed. No, Doyle would be something big and rough, a wolf you couldn't touch. Oakley was sure of it. She smacked her hands together with a loud slap, and saw him twitch under the sheets. 

“Rise and shine, my man! It’s time to put your pelt on and go hunting!” she announced. 

Doyle’s voice was husky with sleep. “ _Ehrgh_ , noooo. Go away, for God's sake, it’s too early.” 

“Early wolf gets the deer. Now wake up and show me some of that fabulous fur, baby.” 

Doyle’s eyes remained closed.  

“Five more minutes.” he murmured. 

“Nope.” She said, and clapped again. 

Doyle reached up to tug the sheet over his ear. "Four, then."  

“No way. Sleep-time’s over. It’s pelt-time now, so move your ass.”  

More clapping. 

“Have a little mercy, love. You fed me a liquid dinner last night and I’ve only just got to sleep because of it,” Doyle groaned into his pillow. 

“Boo-hoo for you-hoo. Nobody cares.” 

Bleary-eyed, Doyle roused enough to prop himself onto his elbows. He gave her a pointed look, then collapsed back into the sheets with a frustrated grunt. Several seconds passed. Without warning he bolted upright again in the bed with a sharp, horrified gasp. 

“You’re in my room.” he said, loud with alarm. He was wide awake now. “You’re in my room. Why are you in my room?” 

Oakley grinned. “I just told you. It’s time for your very first hunting lesson!" 

“My what?” 

“Your hunting lesson. Remember? You wanted me to teach you how to hunt.” 

Dumbly – “I did? Oh! Yes. Yes, I did say that, didn't I." 

Oakley ignored him and fiddled with the dressing gown. She undid the drawstring and the flaps fluttered open a wide inch.  

Doyle's face slackened with blank astonishment.    

“When I was young my brothers and I used to have this ritual.” Oakley told him. “We’d put our pelts on together – kind of like suiting up in the locker room before the big game, you know?” She took a step forward and started to pull the dressing gown the rest of the way open. “Then we’d chug some coffee, get our blood pumping, get our collars on and our clothes together, do a quick chant – _go team go_ – and then _BAM!_ ” 

Doyle flinched. 

“We’d hit the woods and take down the biggest deer we could find.” 

Doyle tipped his chin to the side and swallowed thickly. “And, this ritual? That’s not, erm . . .” He cleared his throat to keep the rising distress out of his voice. “That’s not what’s happening right now, is it?” 

“Hell yeah, my man. Gotta honor the family traditions, am I right?” 

The dressing gown hit the floor.  

Doyle's face went completely vacant as he looked her over. She was wearing a loose-fitting tank top and a pair of crisp, white panties. He watched with an expression of mingled horror and delight as she grabbed the end of the tank top with both hands and pulled it gracefully over her head.   

She wasn't wearing a bra. 

Doyle gave a strangled cry of protest and dove back under the sheets. He looked like a child hiding from the boogie-man. 

Oakley sighed. “Scruff, seriously, I know you’re tired but we gotta get out there early, otherwise we’re gonna miss the good stuff. Deer and rabbits move around the most at dawn.” 

“I’ve changed my mind. I can’t go out with you right now.” Doyle ground out. “I–I don’t feel well. I’ve got a–a–oh god what is it, what do I have? A hangover? No, a headache! Yes, that’s it. I have a splitting headache.” 

Oakley crossed her arms and tutted at him. “No you don’t. You just have cold paws. But hey, listen, it's going to be fine. I’ll be right there with you, showing you what to do. It’ll be a blast, I promise.” 

A quivering groan from under the sheets.  

“Aw, come on. That’s not the right attitude to have! Just because it's your first time doesn't mean it’ll be a _bad_ time. You have to try and be optimistic about these kinds of things, my man.” 

Oakley waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, she grabbed the end of the sheets and tore them away with a single, firm yank.  

"There! See?” Her enthusiasm was getting shrill. “Easy-peasy. Up you get!”  

Doyle made a strange moaning noise in his throat. He curled up on the mattress and put one of his hands over his eyes. His other hand dragged the waste-band of his striped pajama-bottoms up past his belly button. 

Oakley tossed the bed sheets aside and poked him firmly in the foot. His eyes popped open and he let out a startled yelp. To drive the point home, she poked him again. He squirmed into a sitting position on the bed and fixed his gaze awkwardly on his pajama-bottoms. A very rigid, oblong crease had formed at their center.  

"You're mad,” he whispered. Pinpoints of yellow flickered in his wide, blue eyes. “You’re utterly insane. What would Charlie think about – about – _this?_ "   

“Charlie? Who cares about Charlie? Charlie isn't here. And anyway, it's not like I'm going to go home and tell him about it.”  

She saw Doyle reach for one of his pillows. For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was going to throw it at her, or cover his face with it. He moved the pillow to his lap instead. 

"You can't ask me to do this, Gerry.” He squeaked, struggling with the pillow. “I can't – I can't see you like this.”  

"What are you talking about? You're an artist, aren't you? You've drawn anatomy before, right?" 

"Yes, well, drawing a stranger's anatomy is one thing. But when it's a friend's anatomy it crosses into the realm of _severely impolite_."  

She rolled her eyes at him. “For humans, maybe. But we’re not human.”  

“Yes, well, I’m having a very human reaction right now, Geraldine.” 

Oakley frowned. She knew there was a thin line between perpetuating the ideal of light-hearted camaraderie, and giving somebody the wrong set of signals. She was fairly certain she hadn't crossed that line yet, but just to be sure, she decided to clarify a few things. 

She put her hands on her hips and addressed Doyle in an even tone of voice. 

“Look, I’m flattered by your human reaction and everything, but I’m not doing this as a come-on. Trust me. I was just trying to share something special with you. Something me and my family used to do together. It means a lot to me. And, yes, it involves nudity, and yes, there’s a chance you might get turned on, in the mechanical sense. But so what? You get turned on, whatever, I won’t be mad. I know you’re not doing it on purpose. Besides, you'll have to see me naked eventually, right? Better to get desensitized to it now. Modesty's for the boring animals, not for us.” 

* * *

 _[Ian Doyle is covered with a sheen of sweat. He blinks rapidly. He doubts what he sees. Geraldine Oakley is standing before his narrow bed, almost entirely naked. Her beauty lacks opulence, but there is a stunning sensuality to her that pierces him in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat._ _Outside this frozen bubble of disbelief, time stretches.]_  

 

Doyle felt warm, hot. Crazy. His mouth was dry and cottony. His skin vibrated with fear and excitement. He wondered – Was this really happening? Was Oakley really there with him in this small, stale bedroom? Or had he caught a cold sometime in the night. Maybe he was delirious. Maybe Oakley was only the product of his lovely imagination. A fever-dream to follow up the previous night's mental dalliance. 

Doyle consulted his memory for the lurid details. He saw Oakley, bare, nubile, her eyes closed as he traced a finger between her breasts, across her stomach, dipping below her navel to slip inside her. Oakley biting her lip, clenching tight around him as he bent over her. Oakley spreading her legs to give his tongue better access. The taste of her sweat. The sound of her stifled moans. The feel of her writhing against his mouth. 

Doyle's cock strained against the fabric of his boxer-shorts.  

 _Forget about a cold shower or a wank_ , said a certain, familiar voice. _You're going to need a ten-lap jog around the cabin to fix it this time._        

Doyle came back to the present, saw Oakley was waiting for something. She had finished talking, and he had to scramble to recall the last thing she said. Something or other about modesty.  

 _Or lack thereof._  

He quickly looked away. 

"What's wrong now?" he heard Oakley ask. 

"I . . . I don't . . . I can’t.” His voice was thick with something like pain. “I mean I–I–" 

 _I love you I'm in love with you jesus god in heaven look at you how could I NOT be in love with you!_  

“I–” 

 _I'm in love you._  

"I'm–" 

 _In love with you! Fucks sake man, say it and pounce on her!_  

"I'm–" 

"You're going to grow up and look me in the eyes like a big boy?" Oakley offered. 

Doyle's voice evaporated. He felt his face turn even hotter. Slowly, he looked up and drank in the sight of her.  

She was pale and smooth, and her pert nipples had turned a dark and perky coral-pink in the cold. He watched them rise and fall with her breathing. Lower, her muscular legs and well-toned belly, covered in a light dusting of freckles, the dry cold skin prickled with goose-pimples. 

Doyle swallowed audibly. She was absolutely breathtaking. Temptation made flesh. He pressed the pillow against his lap and his hips jerked involuntarily up to meet it. 

 _God yes she’s bouncing on top of you right now so wet so velvety soft can you feel it?_  

He could. It made his cock ache. He jerked against the pillow again and hissed. 

“Jesus Christ, girl.”    

Oakley grinned at him. Her eyes shimmered like unearthly topaz. 

“Hell, you think this is something?" she said, striking a small pose. "Just wait’ll you see my pelt.” 

Without another word she hooked her fingers around the band of her knickers and started to pull them down.   

Doyle suddenly found himself trapped in the hellish limbo of humiliation and arousal. He had never seen another wolf transform before. As a boy, his mother had shunned his request for a demonstration, and he had been left to figure out the basics for himself, on his own, in the privacy of a locked bedroom. But the trigger-knowledge came easily enough, in the same way puberty gives children the intuition to know vaguely what to do to achieve orgasm. After a number of experiments, Doyle managed to get the hang of it. But it was impossible for him not to equate the idea of transformation with the idea of sex. Both acts were incredibly intimate and physical, and part of him (the reserved and sensible part, what he considered to be the _human_ part) saw witnessing another wolf’s transformation as a kind of twisted voyerism.  

In a strange way it awed him to think that Oakley felt close enough to him to show him something so personal. To let him watch. But at the same time, however, it mortified him on a prudish and moralistic level. And not only that, but it was extremely unsettling to feel the already-limited reserves of his self-control slipping away so quickly. Especially when he had tried so hard to shore up his defenses. Build thick, sturdy walls for Oakley’s sake and for his own. While he did not think these walls were impregnable, he had honestly never expected to feel temptation of this magnitude knocking against the bricks.  

 _So soft I adore you –_  

In front of him, Oakley was bringing the band of her knickers down, over her hipbone now. 

 _So smooth I'm in love with you–_  

Below the knickers, Oakley's round belly receded slightly to form a dark triangle of soft, springy tufts.    

 _I'm in love with you–_  

The stupid striped pajama-bottoms were on too tight. 

 _I'm in love–_  

So were the boxer-shorts underneath the pajama-bottoms. 

 _In love –_  

The words were on his lips again.  

On the pillow, his hand was twitching. Under the pillow, so was his cock.  

"Stop!" Doyle finally managed to rasp. “Gerry, stop. Please. I'll – God – I'll watch you change. Only, just – just cover yourself for me."  

Oakley put her hands on her hips – still partially ( _mercifully_ ) covered by her knickers. Her face tightened into a stubborn simper.  

"The lower half, then." Doyle begged. “For the sake of decency and my _heart_ , cover your lower half."     

He hoped the compromise would save him.  

Oakley grumbled a quick “Okay,” and grudgingly picked up one of the discarded bed sheets. “Will this do?” 

“Yes.”  

Oakley wrapped the sheet around herself in a half-toga, making sure to cover as little of her shapely legs as possible just to spite Doyle.  

"Thank you," he croaked. 

Then her knickers were at her feet and every other thought flew violently out of his head. He watched Oakley's mouth distort into a crooked, bear-trap grin. She looked no less fetching with it, but the length of her teeth prevented her from talking without a lisp. 

"Wath thisss!" She said, and doubled over in an elegant spasm.   

Doyle was stunned into complete, reverent silence as her face pushed out. At the same time, her bare feet were contorting and lengthening. She made a low, guttural sound, and Doyle saw her arms flex and her back curve. The sheet around her hips bulged under the strain of rising fur. Soon she was covered in a thick, dark coat of it. Her limbs stretched absurdly. Doyle could hear the ugly pop of her bones as they repositioned under her skin.    

With a final grunt, Oakley swept the sheet aside and dropped to her haunches. She no longer resembled a person. She was a wolf. A massive black wolf with a glossy coat and a wet nose.    

Cautiously, Doyle crawled to the end of the bed, still clutching the pillow to his groin. He looked over the edge. Oakley rose up from the ground and stepped backward on her thin hind-legs to give him a better view. She had no problems keeping her balance. 

Doyle was seized by the arresting sight of her.  

As a wolf she was thin around the chest, a bit stocky in the hips, slightly shaggy-eared – but she was also three times his size now, and much more imposing because of it. This new, feral edge, both alluring and dangerous, roused a perverse hunger in him. He struggled to speak.  

“You're the most phenomenal creature I've ever laid eyes on, Gerry.”   

Oakley’s sleek muzzle peeled apart, and he heard her voice come out as if by ventriloquism. 

“Thanks,” she growled in a scratchy, distorted timbre. “Now it’s your turn.” 

Time seemed to slow. Her request hung in the air like a dangling spider.  

“I’m sorry? What?” 

“It’s your turn to change, scruff. Just make sure you're not wearing any rings or watches. My uncle Jack did that once – forgot to take his wedding ring off during a change. Damn near lost his finger cause of it. Aunt Carol never let him live it down."  

Doyle, who had been alternating between hot and cold, started to sweat again. He could feel the wolf in him shift beneath the skin, pacing and pawing impatiently at the door of him, ready to come out. 

"Well?" Oakley yapped. “Hurry up and get started." 

"Started?" 

"You know. Take your pants off.” 

Doyle felt another wave of heat come into his face.    

"You – You mean you actually want me to . . .? To . . . ?”   

"I want you to strip for me.”   

Coming from Oakley, those words had the power to set Doyle on fire.  

By some small miracle, he managed to say "No." 

Oakley cocked her head at him. “No?” 

“I – I can’t, Gerry. I can’t change now.” 

"Oh, what? Because of your _–_?" Her eyes fell on his pillow. "Ian, I don't care about that." 

"I know." 

"So strip, then." 

"I can't." 

“Why not?” 

Why not, indeed. Doyle could distinctly remember wanting (rather desperately) to invite Oakley over to his flat back in August. He had daydreamed about giving her the chance to undress in his bathroom. He had even gone so far as to offer to paint her portrait, as a way to entice her. 

Now there she was, alone with him, undressed and in her pelt. Waiting politely for him to change, too.  

But Doyle did not know how to change in front of another wolf. He only knew how to lock himself in his bathroom with the blinds drawn, and do a fast, five-minute private transformation while looking in the mirror. And doing that never _truly_ felt like transforming, anyway. It was more like trying on a dusty old suit to see if it still fit.  

Doyle's stomach twisted. He felt angry tears sting the corners of his eyes. His mother’s face came to him. Old, wrinkled, scowling the way he sometimes scowled. He thought about how her small, gimlet eyes had shined in that parental way that was considered by all children to be both wise and frightening. How her stern, Scottish voice had so often indicated criticism and caution, rather than love and praise.  

Doyle was not a stupid man. He knew where his mother’s bones were buried. He knew her wrinkled face and gimlet eyes were cold and rotting underground, and that she would never again rise to confront him for any imagined misconduct. But her values were still alive in him, and as desperate to connect with his own kind as he was, he could not easily ignore his mother's adamant belief that he should never show his pelt to anyone, because they would loathe him for it.  

But did _anyone_ include other wolves? Would other wolves reject him as readily as ordinary people might? 

Doyle had never asked his mother about this, but she had always given him the impression that, yes, his own kind would hate him just as much as ordinary people would. Maybe even more, because he did not embrace the wolf like they did. And that impression had stuck with Doyle since childhood. It had kept him from truly loving with Amanda Hawthorne. It had kept him from approaching the wolf in Paris. 

And now it kept him from opening up to Geraldine Oakley.  

“I just can’t. Not in front of you.” Doyle replied.  

"I changed in front of you, though." 

"I know. And it was wonderful, but . . ." From across the room, he caught sight of a small, guilty coward in the mirror. Himself. “I’m sorry, Geraldine.” 

She sighed. “You want me to leave?" 

"Yes, but you don't really want to do that, do you." 

"Well, the whole point _is_ to do it as a pack. That's the tradition.” 

“I know, and I'm not trying to be disrespectful of your traditions. It’s just –” A tiny hesitation as he realized how stupid the argument would sound. He went for it anyway, hoping – praying – that she would understand. "My mother,” he began weakly. “She wouldn’t exactly approve of –” 

Oakley blew a raspberry at him from between her fangs. “Yeah right. Like either of us really cares about what some dead bitch has to say about it.”    

Doyle avoided her eyes like she was the gorgon.  

“I can’t,” he whispered into his chin.  

Oakley's tail drooped. “You mean you won’t.” 

"I wasn't raised the same way you were, Gerry. You can't have a go at me for that. I'm only asking you to step outside for–" 

Oakley crinkled her snout at him. She rose stiffly and began to pad out of the room. Doyle could tell by her posture that he had upset her.   

“Wait!” he called out. 

Oakley paused beside the doorway, wagging her tail impatiently.    

Doyle set the pillow aside and got up. He stood erect with all the dignity that a half-naked man could muster, and let Oakley look at him. Then he reached down and slowly started to slide his pajama-bottoms off. He was surprised when Oakley didn't snipe or hurry him. 

“You should keep those on,” she recommended, indicating his boxer-shorts (and the stiffness they hid) with a subtle tic of her head. 

Doyle forced himself to breathe normally. He was shaking. No moment in his life has ever felt as important as this one did.   

“Yes,” he said. “Alright. Thank you.”  

 

* * *

[ _Contrary to popular belief, lycanthropic transformation is not an agonizing, uncontrollable process – as many Hollywood films depict. Lycanthropic transformation is a kind of instinctual reflex. An easy shedding of the skin. Natural, effortless, and almost always painless._  

 _The change starts slowly in Doyle._  

 _In his mind he counts to ten,_ _tightens himself, tenses up. Every muscle in his body knots at once – and then relaxes, releasing something into the bloodstream. He feels the familiar numbness, like novocaine, warm and smothering. It pools in his toes and ripples up his legs in trembling waves. His entire body becomes a gentle buzz of pins and needles. His ears fill with static. His tongue tastes ash. He peers emptily upward. The man in him is going to sleep._  

 _Meanwhile, the flesh is pushing and pulling. Adjusting to fit the revised form. A child’s jacket stretched snugly over the bulky torso of a linebacker._  

 _The room begins to blur and fade. Blackness – heavy, hazy – swims in Doyle’s eyes. Cocooning him in inescapable exhaustion. Doyle goes away for a while, into the blank abyss. Into the gray zone._  

 _When he comes back, he will be the wolf._ ]     
 

Oakley had always been a little curious to know what Doyle looked like under the endless succession of dress-shirts and jumpers that he wore. Now she had the chance to steal a glimpse of him as he changed.  

He was incredibly pale, with little muscle worth mentioning, but there was something about the build of him – lean, wiry, a little ropey in the arms and calves – that suggested there might be a hidden reserve of potential lurking just under the surface. The wolf waiting to impress her. She watched it unfold gradually, like the petals of a flower stretching open to bloom. She could tell the lack of speed was fear-induced. Doyle was clearly restraining himself, but she found the slow, unrefined turn wonderfully provoking.  

She stalked around the bed to where Doyle stood – half crouching, her body gathered compactly together, her shaggy head dipped demurely. Every movement advertised overtures of friendliness and ambivalent submission. She wanted to show Doyle that she wasn't a threat. That he was okay, revealing himself to her like this.    

He held his hands up in a sleepy warding-off gesture, and she retreated slightly to give him space. 

Then he turned away from her to face the wall. His sinewy muscles were inflating. His narrow body was filling out, expanding into a canine shape. His skin was turning gray. Darkening with thick hair. Oakley saw corkscrews of it, trailing down his navel, bursting the elastic band of his boxer-shorts. Splitting the skimpy fabric like a dry cornhusk. Soon the tattered shorts fell away, revealing an enormous set of hairy genitals. 

Oakley backed off another step.  

The skin of Doyle’s face puffed and stretched like a bladder. He started to moan and grunt. These noises changed slowly into gruff, throaty growls. Oakley thought they sounded strangely dirty.  

At the same time, Doyle’s thin, hawkish nose flattened and splayed. His lips fattened and curled back. Teeth the size of piano-keys jutted from his gums. His ears narrowed and protracted. His back heaved and sprouted hair.  

Doyle stopped growling. He stood anew as the wolf – the shredded pair of boxer shorts piled at his feet. 

Silence in the bedroom. 

Oakley crept forward. She kept her tail high in a signal of friendliness. The first thing she noticed was the height difference. As a wolf, Doyle was tall enough to scrape the tips of his ears on the ceiling. And his musk was heavier now, too. Thick like a spray of oil. Oakley thought it smelled like some delicious slice of savagery. The kind of moist, acrid smell that hung in the air at zoos and kennels. Greasy fur and sex. 

Oakley took a deep breath of it and felt herself tingle with a long-dormant, bittersweet yearning. The moment passed, and she remembered what she wanted to do.  

“Ian?” she asked softly. 

When Doyle turned to face her, his pale eyes were startling in the dark face of the wolf. Oakley showed him her teeth in a smile she hoped was charming instead of terrifying, and saw his thick upper lip, the color of tar, wrinkle back to mirror her. Pure-white hair speckled around his muzzle like a beard.  

"Come here, Ian.”   

Doyle’s smile faded. He stayed put.   

"Come here," Oakley repeated, affecting a posture of dominance. “I want to have a proper look at you.”   

Reluctantly, Doyle obeyed. He shambled up to her in a cautious sidling manner. 

Oakley paced a circle around him, sniffing and snorting. Taking him in.  

Bony shoulders. Knobby knees. Scrawny, hollow chest. He was the thin side, alright. She could count the ribs under his skin – but as gangly and starved as he looked, he also held a distinguishable grace. The understated elegance that showed sometimes in the faces of the older, more cunning predators.  

Still looking. Oakley's eyes dipped automatically below Doyle's paunched stomach, where his heavy cock dangled conspicuously out in front of him – the rounded head fully engorged and so darkly colored that it stood out clearly against the fur that lined his legs. Oakley was a little surprised to see that Doyle had maintained this rigor throughout the course of his transformation, but at the same time she knew it was an innocuous physical reaction. The same as any man in his position would have. 

She lingered on it for a second _– Nothing to freak out about –_ and then paid it no more attention. 

Moving away from Doyle, she sat back on her haunches and said “Nice pelt, for an art dealer.”  

* * *

 _[There are sounds in the gray zone. Sounds coming through the haze of paralysis. Light sniffing. The crisp, brittle sound of claws tapping on wood. An animal close by. And a voice. Soothing and familiar, like something from his dream._  

 _The voice drifts over him. Lulls him out of the abyss. Tells him to come here._  

 _Sleepwalking, gauzy-eyed, he follows it to the end of the bed. Sees a shadow of a shape circle him, comes to know it as Oakley. Hears her pay him a small compliment that, really, to him, is incredibly big._  

 _Then the haze lifts, and he is aware again.]_     
 

Standing naked in the center of the room, Doyle gasped for air. It was disorienting at first, to become something else. To watch the color drain away from the world and blink it in again through the drab, black-and-white lenses of a wolf.   

The first thing he noticed was that his body felt weightier. More robust. Everything was enhanced, almost to the point of discomfort. New sensations assailed him. Taste, touch, smell. 

Under the most favorable conditions, a wolf’s sense of smell could detect scents from up to two miles away. Doyle craned his head to the ceiling. His wide nostrils flared rhythmically. The foul after-trace of his own spunk leapt at him. So did Oakley's scent. A suggestion of smoke and a subtle trace of whiskey. And with that, the chemical polish on the floorboards, the sap in the wood outside his window, the odors of a hundred thousand animals beyond. And somewhere behind it all – the gentle, grounding scent of pine. 

Doyle brought his hands ( _not hands not anymore_ ) to his nose. He wanted to scratch away the room, the smells, the world. But as quickly as the smells had registered, his nose adapted, and the smells promptly receded into the background.  

Next, his ears became keenly sensitive, and his head filled with innumerable sounds. Shrill birdsongs. The violent rattling of the leaves in the wind. The creak of the cabin walls. And loudest of all, the boisterous thrum of Oakley’s pulse. The thick fur around Doyle's neck ruffled and itched in time with it. Less and less, as he acclimated, until it finally went away.  

Doyle’s hands were still in front of his face. He looked down and stared at them as if for the first time. They had become a powerful set of snaggled, gray paws. As always, the absence of his thumbs, now his dewclaws, both tickled and disturbed him. He opened his mouth to comment on it, but he had forgotten that his mouth was not the same anymore. His voice had deepened and prickled to such an extent that all he could produce was an inarticulate snarling sound.  

He ran his tongue along the inside of his gums and felt his wolf's-teeth. The strange yet familiar shape of longer, pointier enamel. Summoning up an excessive amount of control, he managed to shrink them enough to make speaking easier – though not by much.  

“Rrrreeeehhhrrry?” 

This time the snarls sounded almost like human words. He tried again. 

“Rrrreeeehhhrrry?” 

The way he sounded reminded him of a ridiculous online video he had once seen; a dog barking out short garbled phrases like “Hello” (only it come out more as “ _Rehroo_ ”) and “I love you" (“ _Ahh rooo uuu!_ ”).   

 _Scooby-dooby-doo, no more eloquence for you_ , he thought with lame regret.  

Oakley whined up at him. “Come on. You can do it. I believe in you, and all the rest of that corny, inspirational bullshit.”  

Doyle’s tail wagged despite his embarrassment. He concentrated on forcing his mouth to form the right syllables.  

“Geeeehrrrry?” A little better, getting there. “Gerrrry? Gerry?” 

“There you go. You got it.” 

Doyle's tail wagged faster. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The coward was gone. The wolf had replaced him. And there was Oakley too, just one of a pair of wolves in the clean room, the rest of it empty.  

It seemed absurd, and a little surreal, to see such wild things in a such a pristine setting.  

 _In a place so clearly meant for people_ , thought Doyle.   

He was still hunched over, standing on his rear legs like a man. Oakley approached him and gave him another stern but hesitant once-over. She looked like she was checking to make sure of something. It made Doyle anxious. He sat back on the edge of the bed, feeling vulnerable and exposed – his tail stuffed painfully under his left leg, his ears moving on their own in awkward little circles. Earlier he had been very sure that Oakley would never judge Doyle-the-man. But what about Doyle-the-wolf? Now, with his pelt out, sitting in front of her like a freak at a circus show, he wondered if she thought him inadequate in some way. If he was the least wolf-like of her kind she had ever seen. Was his coat thick enough for her. Did his teeth measure up? Her assessment, practiced in its subtlety, gave absolutely nothing away, although he noticed that she seemed very determined not to look at his – 

 _Oh, fucking HELL!_  

Doyle snatched the pillow off the bed and covered himself with it.  

"Ah, just, you know, ignore that. It'll go away, erm, in a moment I think. God willing. Terribly sorry," he babbled. 

He could feel the weight of Oakley's eyes as they continued to roam over him, searching, studying, scrutinizing. What flaw had they found? What did he lack? And did he lack so severely that her reaction to him might surpass disappointment and flee into the realm of disgust?  

"I ought to join a gym, eh?" he said with a nervous chuckle. "I mean, I'm not exactly the fittest wolf in the world, am I. You've probably seen loads better than me, back in the States." 

Oakley said nothing and trotted closer to him. 

Doyle held his breath as she reared forward. His eyes squeezed shut. His cock shrank under the pillow. Was she going to hurt him? Bite him? Maul his abominable face until there was nothing left to offend her with?   

Oakley reached out and tentatively stroked his muzzle with her own. It was like a kind of kiss. Gentle, reassuring. Innocent in its animalism. His cock twitched back to life almost immediately.    

"Please, don't do that," he panted. He wasn't talking to Oakley, but he felt her back off anyway. 

Carefully, Doyle opened his eyes and, not knowing what else to do, leaned down to pick up his boxer shorts. 

"Well I've ruined these, haven't I. My best pair and all." 

"Go commando." Oakley suggested. 

Some light laughter as they faced each other in the soft morning light, both of them oddly shy after everything. 

"You don't know how to handle yourself in front of another wolf, do you." Oakley candidly observed. 

It was a harsh, blunt thing to say and for a split second Doyle hated her for actually putting it into words. 

"No," he muttered, naked and ignorant. A newborn at fifty-eight.  

"That's okay," Oakley told him in a relaxed, forgiving tone of voice. "You'll learn. Can you walk for me?”  

"Not just now." 

They both waited until the pillow was no longer necessary. Afterward, Doyle stood back up, took a few jittery, uncoordinated steps, and looked to Oakley for approval. It was clear from the way he moved that he was very uncomfortable in his pelt. 

“Umm, not bad. How about on all-fours?” Oakley requested. 

“All fours feels a bit strange to me. I'm not used to it. In fact, I don't think I've ever been down on all fours in my pelt before."    

"Bullshit."        

Doyle only looked at her. She studied his face for a long time.        

"Not bullshit?"  

"Not bullshit." He answered. 

She looked genuinely amazed. Doyle understood why. She had probably suspected him to have lived more of his life as a man than a wolf, but up until now, she had never known the true extent to which the wolf and its ways were foreign to him. Having finally revealed it to her, he felt even more humiliated. 

“Try it on all fours.” She told him. 

“How?” 

“Crawl like a toddler. Play doggie. Figure it out.” 

Knowledge of the quadruped-saunter came naturally for most lycanthropes, Doyle included. With remarkable poise, he sprinted past her on his front and hind-paws, went around the bed, and jumped onto the mattress. 

Oakley scratched her ear with thoughtful acceptance. 

“Not bad,” she said. “Needs a little work, though. The way you move, I don’t know, you look like a guy pretending to be a wolf instead of just a regular old wolf.” 

“Yes, well, this is the longest I’ve ever been in my pelt, to be fair. You can't expect me to do it perfectly right away, now can you.”   

“I know. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it sooner or later.” 

“Your faith in me is humbling.” Doyle joked. Some silence. His tail swept along the smooth sheet covering the mattress and the motion made a soft whistling sound. Awkwardly he asked “So, what happens now that we’ve, um, you know?”  

“Let’s go downstairs. Have a drink. Get the blood pumping.” 

* * *

_[Sunday, September 6th. Mid morning.]_

[ _Down the stairs. Into the kitchen._ _A long, lean, timber wolf by the refrigerator, stretching on its haunches,_ _its forepaws on the counter, its_ _nose pointed into the cupboard. Casually rooting and rummaging through the food._  

 _Another wolf by the table, standing upright. Tense. Alert. Its ears perked up. Its tail wagging anxiously._  

 _It looks from it’s companion to the dusty window, lost and confused. Here in the kitchen – a sample of the wild. Outside the kitchen – the rest of it. A daunting cluster of pine and birch, and the cold Scottish lake.]_  

 

Doyle took a seat at the kitchen table while Oakley busied herself at the counter. His massive body dwarfed the backless chair, and he had to scrunch his tail up by his hip to stay on it. He felt like he was attending a child’s tea-party. Behind him, the slide-rattle of a kitchen drawer. Tap-water running. The strange sounds of Oakley playing house for him. 

“Where’s your German buddy keep the coffee, scruff?” she asked him over her shoulder. She was by the cupboards now, clinking through dishes and biscuit boxes.    

“I’m not sure Spencer has coffee, but he might keep some tea for company. If he ever has company.” Doyle said. He was secretly happy that the cabin did not contain too much of its previous occupant, as some residences do. “You know, I’ve never eaten as a wolf before. Can we stomach tea when we're in our pelts?” 

“Oh sure.” Oakley replied. She grabbed a cookie-jar full of tea-bags and a clean pair of mugs from the sink. “We can stomach just about anything we eat. Well, anything but chocolate, that is.” 

An electric tea kettle was plugged in by the toaster. Oakley switched it on and the sound of bubbling water filled the kitchen. 

“I have to tell you – this, all of this, it’s all very strange to me.” Doyle said, straining to sound calm. The window over the kitchen sink gave him a decent view of the trees and the lake. He saw the scene in shades of muted gray. He was having trouble getting used to the perspective.    

At the counter, Oakley rearranged the pelt on her paws to better accommodate holding a kettle. 

“I’m, ah, feeling just a tad bit out of my comfort zone, really.” Doyle continued. He watched her pour the water. The fingers on her left paw looked disproportionately stretched now, as though they had been dislocated. "Should we really be touching Spencer's dishes and drinking out of his cups while we’re wolves? It’s a bit unsanitary, don’t you think?” 

“Nope.” And she splashed some water for punctuation.  

Doyle slumped at the table, hugging his elbows to his chest in a discomfited way. He stared at the stringy cobwebs that zigzagged across the ceiling above it. His thoughts tumbled. Being a wolf for so long was having a negative effect on him. It felt too much like a bad acid trip. He wanted a temporary reprieve. He wanted to detach and regroup before they went hunting. He wanted to get a _god damn handle on things_.  

Still at the counter, Oakley finished with the tea and started to whistle. Somehow, despite the fangs.  

She was in a very intense mood, Doyle noticed, and he sensed that he would have a difficult time persuading her to let him remove his pelt again (however briefly) before the hunt.  

Oakley came back to the table and handed him a steaming mug. When she was sitting comfortably, he quietly asked "Could we not maybe put our skins back on for – for just a wee quick moment?"  

 _Look at me. Reduced to asking permission from someone half my bloody age._  

"Nope." Said Oakley.  

Doyle sucked in a steadying breath. “Ooookay. What if I just put _my_ skin on, then?” 

“Nope.”  

Doyle was beginning to hate that word. He raised his mug to take a drink, saw three pale grey hairs floating on the surface of the tea, and set the mug back down again. 

“Christ, I’m shedding everywhere. I never told Spencer we’d have animals up here. What if he has an allergy? Maybe I should put my skin back on, just while we’re indoors. You know, to keep things tidy for him.” 

He started to stand up. 

Oakley’s voice was perky, but she spoke at twice her normal volume. “ _Sit down._ ” 

He sat down. 

Oakley eyed him carefully. "Your shoulders are up to your ears. What's wrong?"  

“Nothing. Everything. I'm having trouble.”  

Oakley laughed at him. “Drink your tea. Find your zen. Relax.” 

Doyle scowled at her. How was he supposed to relax when he had just experienced an extreme moment of arousal followed closely by a full-blown, _prolonged_ physical metamorphosis into a nine-foot wolf? He took a sip from his mug and let the tea burn his throat on the way down. He wished it was a calming drink. Orange juice, Fanta, plain old water. Not something designed to wind him up.  

“How is this hunting lesson meant to go, exactly?” he asked Oakley, hoping to distract himself with the details. “What’s going to happen out there?”  

“Well, basically, we’ll go out, find ourselves something furry, kill it, and bring it home for dinner.” 

“Is it completely necessary to kill something? Wouldn’t you rather we go about it like fishermen? You know? Catch and release?” He hated the plaintive tone in his voice but he couldn't quite seem to quash it.   

"Of course not." Oakley said with a smile. "Killing something’s the whole point of going out hunting. Killing's how you get your animal aggression out. Best therapy this side of the big blue. I can't wait to get out there and rip me apart something cute and fuzzy. Gonna pretend it’s my boss. Or one of the gate agents. Oh! Or that douche-canoe postman who keeps losing my mail.” 

Doyle made an uncertain humming noise in his throat. “And how long will we be out there for, do you think?” 

She shrugged. “As long as it takes.” 

“I see." He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, tried to cross his legs and accidentally pinched his tail. His posture was very strait. 

"You're fidgeting." Oakley commented. 

"I'm not."  

Oakley pointed to his mug. "Drink.” 

Doyle could tell she was eager to set out. He took another, deliberately-slow sip of tea and let his thoughts simmer.  

 _She actually_ _expects me to chase something down and rip it apart with her._  

He had killed things before, yes. In his dreams. But dreams were a poor substitute for the real thing, as he had recently come to discover. Doyle worried about how he would do it in the waking world, after so many years of bondage – of perpetrating the human facade – had softened and distanced him from his true nature. It wasn't an easy scenario to envision.  

He began to consider the possibility that he might have forgotten how to shift himself into the pattern of canine thinking. If that were the case, what would Oakley, whose superior control and knowledge of her pelt dwarfed his to an absurd degree, think of him then? 

“You know, I’ve just had this enormous impulse to go upstairs and put on a snuggly fleece jumper." Doyle said suddenly. He was desperate for a safety-item. A little bit of human normalness that he could cling to, and that would hopefully give him an excuse for being an awful hunting partner. "I'll just run upstairs and–” 

“Nope.”  

Doyle's tail twitched in annoyance. Politely, he said “I’ll keep my pelt on, of course.” 

“And get fur all over your jumper?”  

Doyle opened his mouth, closed it, did some fast thinking, opened it again. "I'll buy a lint brush when I get home.” 

"Nope." 

“But I’m _cold!_ ” He said with ludicrous overstatement, and made a show of shivering. 

“Drink your tea. That’ll warm you up.”  

Doyle sank limply into his chair. He picked up his mug, took a small, scowling sip. Sloshed it back and forth dramatically. Set it down hard enough to send drops spilling onto the table.  

“Not working. Still cold. Freezing, in fact. Succumbing to hypothermia.”  

“Cut the act. We both know you're afraid."  

He tried to feign outrage. "What? No I'm n–" 

"Yes you are. You’re afraid because you’re still thinking like a man. You have to learn to think like a wolf, and you can’t do that with a man's clothes on.” 

Doyle let the annoyance come fully into his face. “You know, it isn’t the same for me as it is for you, Gerry. You’ve only been away from it for six years. I’ve been away from it my entire life." His accent became more pronounced the louder he got. "I have t'wean myself back into the mooode, oo-kay? I mean I cannae just up and start thinking like a wolf willy-nilly.”  

“Why not? You’re an actor, aren’t you? Play the part.” 

Doyle chewed on that for a second. He tried calling up the familiar restlessness of his acting days – the antsy, almost joyful impatience that came just before he stepped into the spotlight – in the hopes of finding an answer. He tried to court the idea of the wolf in the same way he might have courted a stage character, but the wolf was stubborn and elusive. Doyle knew he could put on the pelt like a costume, and snap and snarl and mimic the actions of a wolf all he wanted, but unless he lost himself in the role, the wolf would never really come to life in the way that it was meant to.  

“Well?” goaded Oakley. 

Doyle let out a frustrated huff. “I don’t know how to play the part, Gerry.” 

“What’s there to know? It's easy. Just be a wolf.” 

Snide and sneering – “I’ll need a bit more direction than that, I’m afraid." 

Oakley sounded equally frustrated. “You want direction? Okay, here’s your direction. You’re a wolf, which means you know right off the bat that wolf interaction is pretty different from human interaction. You know that, for wolves, the usual human faux pas don’t count. Example? Being naked. You realize that being naked is common-place for _most_ animals. So, you’re used to it. It doesn’t bother you at all to sit here naked like this. It doesn't bother you to go without your jumpers and your underpants and your fancy art shirts." 

"Art shirts?" 

"You're fine with it." She barreled on. "And the same thing goes with personal space, and physical contact, too. You know that, when wolves interact, there’s a lot more touching involved. Touching, and, well, mouth action. Licking and sniffing certain areas–“ Using air quotes to highlight _certain areas,_ “–is totally acceptable to you, and considered normal and polite in your culture. You know there’s really nowhere you could lick or sniff me, a fellow wolf, that would piss me off.” 

Eager, hopeful, a little sultry – “Oh?” 

“Yeah, and that’s because licking and sniffing is like the universal wolf-handshake.” 

Flat and disappointed – “Oh.”  

“Of course, even though the character you’re playing knows that, _you_ might forget it at first. Well, more like, your body might forget it at first. Your body might accidentally slip up and think maybe I mean something else when I give you a quick in-pelt lick on the cheek. Which is why I’m going to say this out loud for you; when we do this type of thing, when I touch or lick you while we’re in our pelts, I mean it in a strictly platonic way. Okay?” 

Glumly – “Okay.” 

"And another thing. When you're a wolf, you _talk_ like a wolf, too." 

Doyle gave her a quizzical look. 

"My dad always discouraged chatter when my brothers and I were in our pelts." Oakley told him. "We learned to communicate with gestures and signals. That's the way most wolves speak. It's primal, but it helps you keep quiet when you're out on a hunt." 

Doyle flashed her a sheepish smile. “I’ve never spoken to another wolf in-pelt before, actually.” he confessed. “What wolf-speak I _do_ know is probably the equivalent of a man guessing when his dog wants a treat.”  

“All right, we can work on that too while we’re up here." 

Over the next few minutes Oakley gave him a crash-course in wolf-phonetics. Luckily for her, Doyle was a fast learner. By the time she was finished with him, he had memorized most of the essential ear-and-tail signals, as well as a variety of vocalizations and facial expressions.   

“Pop quiz, hot-shot." Oakley said. 

Doyle mumbled a quick “Good God” and drank from his mug. 

“Show me anger. Threaten me.” 

"Must I?" Doyle sighed. 

" _Aye, ye_ _moost_." She replied, mimicking his accent. 

Doyle bared his teeth half-heartedly. His ears stood upright and forward-facing on his head.  

“Bring it home.” Oakley said. 

Doyle growled for her. It was meant to sound deep and menacing, but it came out more like a frightened gurgle. 

Oakley grinned. “And the Oscar goes to – Ian Doyle!” 

Doyle hid his nose with his paws. “Christ. Don’t say things like that. I’m self-conscious enough as it is.” 

"Don't be. You passed the oral part of the quiz. Next comes the physical part." 

She excused herself, went to the cabinet by the sink, rinsed her mug, and came back to the table. Without warning she lowered herself to the floor and rolled onto her back. 

Doyle cocked his shaggy, triangular head sideways in confusion. 

“Gerry?”  

On the floor, Oakley folded her paws across her chest, tucked her tail over one leg, and lifted her hind quarters up so that Doyle could better see her stomach.  

“Gerry, what on Earth are you doing?” Doyle asked her. 

No answer. Oakley wiggled on the floor, displaying the soft, vulnerable fur of her stomach.  

Doyle wasn't sure what she wanted. Was he meant to do something specific?  

“Are we – Is this like charades or something? I don’t understand what you’re doing.” Doyle said, sounding lost. 

Oakley stopped wiggling and sighed. "Come on, we literally _just_ went over this." 

"Did we?" 

Oakley regained her feet, came around the table to him, and touched his paw – light, gentle – with her own. He didn't pull away. 

"It's hard to get through to you, sometimes. You know that? You're so damn shy." Oakley told him. 

Doyle cringed. Another cutting assessment. 

"I can't help that, Gerry. It's–"  

"How you were raised, I know, I know. But it's like I said. Modesty's for the boring animals." 

"I'm not an animal, Gerry.  I’m not even a wolf masquerading as a man, I’m a man masquerading as a wolf. I don’t think I can reverse myself the way you want me to." 

Oakley rested her chin on his knee. "Can I tell you a secret? I'd love it if you scratched my belly." 

"Sorry?" 

She looked up at him – 

 _Puppy-dog eyes?_  

– and Doyle saw the woman behind the wolf, the woman who was strong and capable and accomplished, fresh and raw now in her pelt. She had lowered her defenses for him. She was urging him to accept her as well as himself. Asking him to touch her in all the intimate, devastating ways he had been trying to avoid. 

"It's a practice scene, man." Oakley summarized. "Wolf interaction. Act it out with me." 

Doyle watched Oakley leave his knee and recline on the floor, once again presenting her belly. Gazing warmly up at him. Providing an open invitation. For a moment, just a moment, Doyle's fears melted away in a rush of warm affection.  

"Gerry . . ." 

"Scratch me." She requested. 

And that was all it took for his resolve to break. 

He toppled swiftly out of his chair and pinned Oakley to the floor. In the same instance, her sleek head darted up and he felt her flat, pink tongue swipe across his snout. Doyle returned the gesture with earnest enthusiasm, licking and nuzzling her neck. Nipping at her face, her collarbone, her forehead. Anywhere his mouth and tongue could find to latch onto.  

Amused, Oakley tried to talk over his frenzy. "Wow. Okay. All I wanted was a scratch but hey, I'll take it." 

Doyle whined like a giddy, lovesick boy. Nobody had touched him like this in years. Nobody had asked him to touch them like this in years. He ran his paws over every inch of Oakley's stretching stomach.  

"No, no, scratch, don't rub! Otherwise it tickles. Here, like this," Oakley instructed in-between bouts of giggling. “Yeah, that’s nice. You’ve got magic hands, scruff.”  

“Paws,” Doyle rumbled, pressing his muzzle into the furry crook of her shoulder. 

“Right. Just testing you.” She laughed. 

He laughed along with her, sounding drunk and dazed and overjoyed to be touching her, tasting her, tickling her at last. 

"God, I missed this. I missed being with another wolf." She said, very close to his ear. 

Doyle made an utterly embarrassing noise and curved his claws gently but firmly across her abdomen. He was amazed when she didn't shrink away, astounded when she pushed herself fully onto her back to grant him better access. He shifted on top of her and felt himself accidentally graze one of her nipples. She had ten when she was in her pelt. He stilled on top of her.  

"Whoa. What is it? What's wrong?" Oakley asked.  

Doyle's voice came out thick and gravelly. "Ah, nothing." 

With the lightest of touches, he let his long, coarse fingers trace along her chest to brush over her nipple.  

"Is this . . . okay?" He murmured, a little breathlessly. He was hardening again. He didn't bother to hide it from her this time. 

"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?" 

Doyle, so tender now, put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her through his silvery eyelashes.   

"What about . . . this?" A micro-thrust of his hips. "Is this okay?" 

Oakley was understanding, but honest. "That right there is your body forgetting you're supposed to be in character."  

The words cut swiftly through him like a knife.  

 _Practice scene. Just a practice scene. Two dogs playing on the kitchen floor. That's all we are, and after the scene ends and we'll both pretend like it never happened, won't we. God, how could I have been so stupid?_  

Ashamed of his own lack of restraint, he went to clambor off of her. 

Oakley folded him into a reassuring hug before he could get away.  

"It's only your first offense though, so I'll go easy on you. Hell, if you want, we can set up some temporary rules and boundaries for now. That way things don’t get too weird for you on the hunt.” 

Doyle swallowed back the pain of the situation and forced himself to see it her way. “Yes, that’s probably a smart idea.”  

She let him stand up, and they took their places at the table like they were sitting down at a business meeting.  

Speaking around the lump in his throat, Doyle said "We shouldn't do too much more of that," and he nodded at the floor. "Not at first. I'll keep getting excited. You'll need to ease me into things a bit. And for God sake, don't let me get on top of you like that. Or underneath you. Or behind you. Or–" 

“Technically, me being underneath you in my pelt means I was submitting to you." Oakley explained. 

"Yes, I know, and I'll try to keep that in mind, but for today, let's steer clear of submitting and the like." 

"No problem. Anything else?" 

"We should limit the casual touching as well." He said coldly. A touch dejected. "Anything longer than five seconds is too long for me." 

"What, seriously?" 

“And no licking, either. Nothing that could be misconstrued as a kiss." 

She balked at him. "But you already know I don't mean anything by–" 

"And you have to let me wear at least one piece of clothing during the hunt. Trousers, preferably.” 

Her face scrunched up. “No way.” 

“It would make the transition a lot easier on me, Gerry."  

“I understand that, Ian, but the answer’s still no.” 

"Why, for Christ sake?” Doyle bit out.  

“To quote my daddy – _a wolf with britches on is a dead give-away_. Translation? Wearing clothes when you're a wolf isn't safe. We’ll hide our clothes in a bush and change into them when we’re done hunting. End of story.”  

Doyle said nothing and tapped his long claws on the surface of the table in a sulky, rebellious way. His resentment hung in the air like smoke. 

"Will you be calling your precious bunny before or after you go out and rip one up?” Doyle said after a while. He hadn't meant the question to sting, not entirely – but when he saw Oakley's smile turn brittle, he gave himself a mental kick for bringing it up. "That is, you promised you would talk to Charles, didn't you." He reminded her gently. Trying to backpeddle.  

“Yeah, yeah. I'll call him after.” 

“But I thought–" 

“Would _you_ call Amanda while you had your pelt on? Exactly. And anyway, I don’t want to think about Charlie right now.” Oakley said. She went back to being overly chipper. “I’m up here to spend time with you, not him.” 

Full of remorse, Doyle hunched over his mug. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat; steady, but noticeable. He leaned forward and picked up Oakley's paw.  

"Alright, alright. You can touch me for longer than five seconds." He said with a slanted smile. Though, what he really meant to say was – _I've decided it's better to be a wolf and touch you and pretend it means something, than to be a man and go without touching you._  

Oakley put her paw on his face and stroked it. "Aaaw, scruff." Then, teasing him, "Who's a good puppy? Huh? Who's a good puppy?" 

"Don't." 

She giggled and took his mug away.  

After a quick round of washing up, Doyle went upstairs and retrieved a fresh set of clothes for himself, and the white cotton dress out of Oakley's room. He also picked up the pair of belts she kept in her purse. 

Outside, he watched Oakley neatly fold their clothes into a plastic grocery bag and drape it over a low-hanging tree branch near the cabin porch.  

She handed him one of the belts. 

“Put that around your neck, loose, like this. See? No, no, like I have it. No, like, ugh – here, let me help you.” 

She came impossibly close – 

“Too close,” warned Doyle. 

“Deal with it.” 

She reached up to put her arms around his neck. Desire and anxiety crackled from him as crisp as fresh static.   

She toyed with the belt. “All right, let me get it around your neck there. Okay, now, wait – stand still – no, stand _still_. God, you’re the oldest toddler I ever met, you know that? There. You’re very first collar.” She stepped back to review her work. “Looks good. How's it feel? Is it loose enough for you?” 

He traced the leather band around his neck and tried to scratch under the metal buckle.  

"It's fine. Thank you." Said Doyle. 

They set off under a sky the color of tarnished metal, headed for the dark woods that neighbored the cabin. There was still dew on the grass, and the air was pungent with the scent of balsam. 

Doyle froze at the forest’s edge. "What if someone sees us?"    

"They won't." Said Oakley. She had paused in front of him at the place where the underbrush was thickest.   

"But what if they do?" Doyle whispered.   

"Then they'll think we're dogs. That's what the collars are for. Remember?"   

"But what if they don't think we're dogs? What if they realize we're wolves? What if they call animal control on us? What if they come after us on their own with guns and pitchforks and fire and-"    

"Ian, I appreciate where you're coming from, but right now I'm going to have to ask you to shut up. You're starting to get on my nerves. Take a deep breath, and just let whatever happens, happen."    

Doyle gave a tight nod. Oakley started ahead of him. They moved a few paces onto the path before he stilled again.    

“Wait. What about fleas? And ticks? And nettles? And –" 

Oakley gave him a sidelong glare and he shrank beside her with an apologetic whine. Her expression softened slightly.  

"Ian, I'm going to tell you something my mom once told me when I was first learning to hunt. _A wolf walks through the woods alone at night. The wolf is unafraid. Why is the wolf unafraid?_ _Because the wolf knows she's the scariest thing in the woods._ Get it? Good. Now come on." 

Below the canopy now – emerging from the brush, taking light, fast steps across a blanket of dead leaves. Nearby, a creek where a few downy birches grew. The tracks of badgers and rabbits pressed into the damp mud.  

Fast trotting down a hollow-way. Oakley in the lead, Doyle behind her. Watching her great brush of a tail wave back and forth. Heading in no particular direction. Following their noses past the stream-bed. The land, rising again, changing to a steep ravine. A laborious climb up to where the path sloped back down.  

Doyle panted in his pelt. The instability of walking like a wolf was waning, gradually, now that he was in his natural element – but he was still very aware of himself. He wore the mentality of a man like a pair of goupey cement shoes. They slowed him down significantly.  

“Wait for me, will you. I said wait for me.” Doyle wheezed. 

Oakley glanced over her shoulder to check on him. She had fallen back into her stride in an easy, effortless way. Doyle struggled not to be jealous. 

“You say something back there?" Oakley asked him. 

“Yes. Wait for me.” Doyle repeated. 

“Why? You’re keeping up.” 

“Barely. I’m not as spry as I used to be.” 

“Oh yeah? What about yesterday at the tube, huh?” 

“I was in a different body then.” 

Oakley hung back until he caught up. Then they were moving again, over more even ground and into a lush meadow. Wispy seed heads and tall airy panicles wafted above the dark foliage. Ahead of them, the tree-covered valley, bordered on it's far side by a span of gracefully eroded hills. 

Oakley blended into the landscape of deep, delicate grays like a ghost. Snuffling and snorting through the long grass, sending the grouse flipflapping into the sky and the field mice darting for their holes.  

Doyle jogged obediently after her, taking it all in.  

So much forest, so much wildlife.  

They came out of the field and ducked back under the canopy. The heavy shrubs thinned when they reached the deep shade. Above them, the magpies tittered. 

Forging ahead, into a small clearing now, where a large bolder sat. Fern bushes and upturned stumps rotted around it in a primeval echo. Nearby, the gaseous stink of stagnant water, creeping up from the little gully off to the side.  

Doyle blundered through the tangled heather, trying, and failing, to immerse himself in the role of the wolf.   

 _A real wolf would enjoy the open forest_ , he rationalized. _Never mind the constant running and the total lack of breakfast this morning. Never mind_ _the disgusting, dead squirrels and the croaking toads rotting all over the place. Never mind the snake you're about to step on–_   

Doyle yipped once and took a distressed, stumble-step backward.     

Oakley spun around with her fangs bared, ready to fight. "What? What is it?"   

Doyle, bristling, horrified – “There! Look!"   

Oakley looked and saw a small snake slithering along the forest floor.   

Her alarm deflated into anger. "Oh my god, are you serious?"   

"Yes! Yes! Stomp it! Kill it! Feed it a fucking grenade!"   

Growling under her breath, Oakley approached the snake and quickly batted it away with her paw. Unhurt, the snake disappeared into the undergrowth. 

Doyle instantly relaxed. "Oh, thank y–" 

Oakley snatched away his solace with a single, curt snap of her fangs.  

Doyle hung his head and replied with a pitiful-sounding whimper.  

They moved on. Pine needles padded a narrow trail leading up to a small thicket where bearberry shrubs peppered the floor beneath the trees. Soon the sun came out, high and pale and warm enough to dry off the forest.  

Doyle trailed at Oakley’s heels looking hot and dispirited. The flies swarmed him. 

"How you holding up back there?" Oakley asked him, as if he were a child sitting in the backseat of some imaginary car. 

“Well, I would say I was absolutely _miserable_ , but then I’d sound like a wingey git, wouldn’t I.” 

“Yup.” Oakley agreed.   

They came to a section of forest where the pine trees grew in thick clumps. The ground below was a mat of dried pine-needles, and the branches overhead were so dense that, even on the brightest of days, the space beneath was shadowy and dark.    

Oakley gestured to the space around them with her nose. “We’ll take a break here. Five minutes. Smoke if you got ‘em.” 

She pretended to shake a cigarette out of an invisible pack, and then patted her furry chest for matches. The humor of the pantomime was lost on Doyle. Disgruntled, he flopped onto the floor in fully doggy-snit. Oakley lounged in the shade beside him.  

A steady breeze sent the branches rustling overhead. Silky, subtle noises that were attractive to the wolf. The music of the forest becoming more pronounced. Farther off, the crows roosted and cackled. 

Doyle dozed with Oakley's head on his back. The mood was soporific. Something told him there was an overabundance of time to take here. He imagined a stopped clock, flowers opening, mushrooms sprouting, dew collecting on leaves in timelapse. It was somewhat liberating to realize he didn't have to be anywhere. That there were no schedules to keep in the forest.   

He felt Oakley stir on top of him. She got up and started snapping at the dust motes that hovered in the warm, still air. He ignored her. A lot of effort was going into staying relaxed in his pelt. 

Oakley prowled over to him. “Okay, scruff. Lesson time.” Her voice was deep and commanding. The snarl of a predator.  

Doyle tensed. The break was over. He gave her his full attention.  

“The first thing you need to know about hunting is that it’s all about teamwork. Wolves work together when they hunt. Usually, by carrying out coordinated attacks. It’s fast and it’s efficient.”   

“How do we coordinate an attack?” asked Doyle.   

“Easy. One of us – the pack leader – gives the other pack-member directions, and the other pack-member obeys. For the purposes of this exercise, you're the other pack-member." 

“And I'm to do everything you tell me?" 

"That's right.” she said haughtily. “Now, today is all about hunting, and there are a couple different kinds of hunts out there. You got your meat hunts – those are for food. And then you got your sport hunts, to keep you sharp. Today, we're gonna do a meat hunt, on account of the fact we need something to cook for lunch." 

"More like dinner, at this rate," Doyle mumbled unhappily.  

"I'm thinking a nice big deer'll do the trick." 

“A deer? Isn’t that a little over-ambitious for a beginner like me?”   

Oakley reared up and wagged her tail with playful vigor. “Good point. We’ll start with some rabbits instead.”   

Doyle pulled himself upright and heard his stiff joints creak. "Going to be sore tomorrow." 

They moved rapidly and surely through the forest, into another wide field, searching through the sparse clumps of grass for wild rabbits.  

"Stop." Oakley said suddenly. "Here, put your nose to the ground. You smell that?" 

He did. It was a vaguely skunky smell. Something like damp lawn clippings and urine.  

"What is it?" 

"Rabbit-sign. Fresh, too." 

"How can you tell?" 

"Smells wet. Old signs smell dry." 

She lead him past a shallow brook that wound away down a small gully.  

"It's somewhere around here, I'm sure of it." 

She started snarling at him in wolf-speak. The change was sudden, and bewildering. Like being abruptly thrust into the middle of a sign-language conversation without an interpreter. It took Doyle a minute to find his footing. 

"Up ahead. Yard, maybe, two yards off. Real close," she was saying. 

Doyle took on her speech patterns as a way to get the back-and-forth rhythm going. 

"Yard, maybe two yards off. Right. What do we do?" 

She somehow managed to convey the word _"Sneak"_ simply by angling her ears. 

Doyle nodded. Later, when they got back, he would have to remember to tell her how amazing he thought it was, that she could simply put away her human-voice and talk with her tail and her ears – like it was no great hardship.  

Together they made their way further into the gully and arrived at a small cluster of thick saxifrage. There, Doyle caught sight of a single nice-sized rabbit, poking halfway out of a hole hidden by an enormous jutting rock. The rabbit was small and sand-colored, with long, wiry legs and enormous ears.  

Oakley whispered to him. "Keep very, very quiet–" 

"You're hunting rabbits?" Doyle offered, doing his best Elmer Fudd. 

"Shhh! It'll hear you." 

"Sorry, sorry,” he said, speaking softly. “Can it smell us?” 

“No, it's down wind of us. Luckily. You see it?” 

Doyle peered through the weeds. “El-ahrairah. The prince with a thousand enemies. Chiefest among them – ourselves.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing. I see it.” Doyle mumbled. 

"Right. I'm going to go after it on my own, so you can see what happens when a lone wolf tries to hunt. Watch what I do." 

She dropped into the long grass that surrounded the rock and stalked quietly forward. Her yellow eyes were trained on the rabbit. It’s long ears were twitching in the wind. It looked like it was checking to see if the coast was clear.  

Oakley continued to shimmy towards it on her belly and arms.  

Behind her, Doyle saw the rabbit hop cautiously out of it's hole and take several careful steps into the grass. It nibbled for a moment or two. Then it looked up, locked eyes with Oakley, and screeched loudly.  

Before Oakley had the chance to react, the rabbit fled back into it's burrow, kicking up a small cloud of dirt beside the bush as it went. 

With a disappointed snarl, Oakley loped over to the rock, circled twice, and then retreated into the long grass. 

"Right. You see what happens when you try to do it on your own? They get away." She explained as she met back up with Doyle.  

"We could wait for it to pop back out again." Doyle suggested. 

Oakley shook her head. "Be faster to find another one. Woods are full of 'em. Besides, the point was to show you why you _shouldn’t_ hunt alone. Come on." 

They found the next rabbit at the mouth of another clearing, munching happily away at a patch of white-clover. 

“Okay, we're going to tackle this one together, scruff." Oakley whispered as they crept toward it. 

"How?" 

“You’re going to flush it out, and I’m going to intercept." 

"What should I do to flush it out?" 

"Scare it." 

"How?" 

"I don't know. Be creative. Bark, snarl, try to bite it. But most of all, you've got to herd it my direction. Can you do that?" 

Doyle grunted a ready affirmative. He broke away from Oakley and slipped around to the other side of the clearing. He was dizzy with anticipation. His blood thrummed from the caffeine. He thought he could feel his dull edges becoming sharp again.   

The rabbit continued to graze, not sensing what was downwind in the black shade, watching it.   

When Doyle was close enough to where it sat, he sprang from the bushes with an inhuman shriek. The rabbit turned tail and fled in the opposite direction. Doyle pursued, running close to the ground at a speed far faster than he had ever before propelled himself. Driving the rabbit through the grass and into Oakley's waiting paws. 

Fast as lightning, she lurched abruptly into view and charged after it, kicking up clumps of mud and dead twigs with each agile step.  

The rabbit, suddenly cut off, whirled back in an attempt to retreat. It swerved around close-packed patches of thorny scrub and went bounding over divots and fallen logs, aiming for the treeline. Oakley ran parallel with it, coming close enough to paw at it's hip. Doyle stayed on her heels, following closely, paying strict attention to the way she moved. When she gave him the signal he broke away and ran behind a stand of trees, only to reappear a moment later in front of the rabbit. 

The rabbit, skittered. Half-stopping, half-sliding. And then Oakley was on it – her slender arms stretched swiftly out to give it one, long, scathing scrape across it's back. To Doyle's surprise, she backed off and slowed to a stop. Doyle came up beside her. Together they watched the rabbit leap away into the grass.  

Doyle, standing now with his head cocked and his ears flat, asked "What happened? I gave it to you and you let it get away."  

He hoped it wasn't his fault. Maybe he'd accidentally misread one of her non-verbal cues and flushed it out incorrectly.  

“Did I cock it up?” 

“No. I meant to let it go.” Oakley replied between quick, winded breaths. 

"Oh?" Doyle said. He sounded mildly disappointed. "I thought you wanted to tear something apart.“ 

“I did, but I changed my mind. Today shouldn’t be about me. It should be about you. We're going to find another rabbit, and this time, _you're_ going to track the scent and intercept." 

Doyle's tail drooped.  

"Me? Now?" 

"Why not." 

"We've only just started with the lessons. Surely there's more you need to teach me first?”  

“Not really. Hunting's pretty simple. You already know the procedure. Now you get to learn by doing." 

"Yes, but–" 

"It’s easier than you think, scruff. Honest. You can do it.” Oakley said with an encouraging whine. 

Doyle shook his head earnestly. "I can't. Not yet. I need more time to rehearse." 

Oakley sighed. “Think you could do it if you were playing Columbo instead of a wolf?”  

“What?” 

“You know. Columbo? Short little grouchy guy. Always wears a trench coat. No? Ah, well, doesn’t have to be Columbo. What about Sam Spade? Miss Marple? Some mini-series detective.” 

“I always preferred Sherlock Holmes, myself.” 

“Him then. Be him.” 

“Not quite the same, is it?” 

“It’s the same basic principle. Look for clues, track down the culprit. Piece of cake. And you can act like a human while you do it.” 

Doyle scratched the bridge of his nose with his back-paw as he thought it over. Her request wasn’t entirely impractical. He’d been obsessed with Homes as a boy. He’d read all the books, seen all the films, even auditioned once or twice for the part. He was relatively certain he could play Sherlock Holmes if he absolutely had to.  

 _It would certainly be easier than playing the wolf._  

“May I stand up?” he questioned. 

“No. Well, okay, but hunch. Pretend your nose is a magnifying glass.” 

Doyle stood, stooping, and paced for a moment. It felt strange after running around on all-fours. Eventually he sat back down and sniffed the ground. He had to filter through a host of different scents before he got to the one he was looking for. Bark and moss, crushed grass, damp pine. Oakley’s paw prints. Older, staler spores leftover from wandering pheasants and badgers. And finally, rabbit.  

“I’ve got something. I think it’s a rabbit. It smells like a rabbit.” 

“Old sign, or fresh?” 

“Fresh. I think.” 

"What's your gut tell you?" 

“Fresh.” 

“Any idea where it’s coming from?” 

“Hard to say.” 

He squatted and scanned the ground around the trees, brushed the leaves away with his nose, and zeroed in on the smell. It grew stronger the closer he got. Working slowly, he cleared the leaves all around the trunk and found a pile of small, brown pellets. 

“Rabbit droppings, made recently.” Doyle announced. He felt excitement flare in him. He was getting into the spirit of things now. “Wherever the rabbit is, it’s close by.” 

“How close?” 

He pointed past the tree with his nose – indicating the direction of the rabbit.  

Oakley grinned. "Alright. Let's go." 

“Wait. What if I'm wrong?" 

“Ha! The great Sherlock Holmes is never wrong!” she whooped.  

That bolstered him fully into action.  

“All right, Watson,” he said, trying to stay in character. He was very rusty. “This way. And, erm, be quick. The game’s a-foot.” 

They set off running again. Down an overgrown path, turning off into a small creek, making their way up the muddy bed where the scent was strongest. All the while, Doyle felt the stirring of old instincts. The blood lust. The joy to kill. He became caught up in them enough to forget himself and his uncertainty. All that mattered was running the rabbit down, and washing his muzzle up to the eyes in it’s blood. 

He came out of bushes by the creek-bed and gazed out over the undulating, grass-crowned hills. Several yards away, at the far end of a wide field, he saw something plump and gray skitter up a knoll and disappear into the grass at the top. Quietly, he followed after it – working his way uphill with Oakley until he found it again. A small rabbit sitting on the edge of a clover-bed. 

Oakley bumped his shoulder. "There's your rabbit, scruff. Good tracking." Her voice held more praise and affection than he was sure his achievement deserved. 

"Yes, erm, and the next bit . . . ?" 

"Intercept." 

Doyle felt his pulse spike.  

"I'll get her launched. You just get into position. And don't worry. You'll do great." 

Oakley moved around to the other side of the clearing while Doyle worked towards the rabbit. Every step he took was precise. Calculated. A single wrong move would alert the rabbit to his presence, and if that happened he would lose the element of surprise.  

He managed to get within two yards of the rabbit before it's head and ears came up. For a moment neither animal moved.  

Lightning quick, Oakley sprang from the grass behind the rabbit and advanced three full, eager steps, until she was right on top of it.  

The rabbit took off running. Doyle moved to intercept. The rabbit saw him, zig-zagged in the grass, and shot past him. Doyle pivoted briskly and gave chase. The rabbit made straight across the field for the cover of the adjacent hills. Doyle pelted after it. Pursuing it with an almost blind, headlong plunge. Determined to make up every inch of ground he lost. Ahead of him, he saw the rabbit bolt around the shoulder of the closest hill. He kept on it, running as fast as he possibly could. Gaining on it. Closing in, near enough now to smell the fear-tinged sweat on the it’s skin.  

Behind him, from about thirty feet back, came Oakley’s piercing bark – loud enough to make the cowering plovers take wing. 

"That's it, Ian! You got it! You got it!" 

Elated, Doyle opened his mouth to bite. Without warning the rabbit banked left and leapt into a fan of high reeds. Doyle went stumbling through them, into a dry stream-bed, and came to a jerky halt. The rabbit was nowhere to be seen. 

Oakley arrived a moment later. "Where is it?" 

Doyle went to her with his tail curled between his legs and his head hung in an embarrassed bow.  

“It got away. Ran right past me.” 

“That happens sometimes. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It was a good first try.”  

“It was dreadful first try, Gerry.” 

“I wouldn’t say it was dreadful, but there’s always room for improvement. Next time you're going to want to try and work on your anticipation-tactics. See, you're chasing the rabbit. What you need to do is try to guess where the rabbit's going to be, and then do your best to get there first." 

"And just how the bloody hell am I supposed to do that?" Doyle snapped. Like most artists, he did not respond well to criticism – even when it was constructive.  

"Put yourself into the mindset of your quarry." Oakley told him calmly. "Think like a rabbit, and you'll catch the rabbit." 

"Think like a rabbit? _Think like a rabbit?_ " Doyle sneered. His voice was taut and shaky. "How in Christ's name am I supposed to _think like a rabbit_ when I'm already a man who's trying to think like a wolf who's trying to think like Sherlock Holmes!” 

Oakley's ears bent flat against her head in a wolf’s frown. "Ian, man, why are you getting so wound up over this? Hunting isn't supposed to piss you off. It's supposed to be fun." 

"Well it isn't. Not for me. Not when I fuck it up." 

“You fucked it up A, because it was your first try, and B, because you were expecting _not_ to fuck up. And hey, I get it. You're older, you've had a lot of time to get the hang of stuff. Art, acting, whatever. You're not used to making mistakes anymore. You’re used to being a pro right off the bat. But you have to understand – it's not going to be perfect the first time out. You _will_ screw up. Heck, you just did. And that’s okay. Say it with me now. Screwing up is okay. This is a learning experience. Mistakes are part of all learning experiences. So stop beating yourself up over making mistakes and have fun.” 

Doyle dropped his head with a frustrated snort and started to walk back and forth in a crooked line in front of her. His tail was high and stiff, a clear indicator of agitation, and he was bristling and grunting under his breath.   

“Feel better now? Want to try again?” Oakley asked once he'd settled down. 

“No. I feel like going home and having something to eat. I'm absolutely famished." Doyle muttered in a peevish, insecure tone of voice. 

“Catch a rabbit, then we'll eat." Oakley said.  

“If we do it that way I'm likely to starve to death.” 

"Give me . . . three more tries."  

"No." 

She bumped his shoulder with her snout in an amiable, persuasive way. "Please? You look good when you're chasing a rabbit. All athletic and muscular."  

He knew full well that her flattery was only thinly-veiled pandering, but it was enough to tip the scales. 

He gave her a reluctant smile. "Alright. If you insist." 

Doyle's second and third attempts were just as unsuccessful (and humiliating) as his first. He was ready to call it quits by the time they came across the third rabbit. This one sat, unsuspecting, in a boggy stretch of moorland by the forest's edge. 

 _Wonderful. Just the kind of terrain I want to run on_ , Doyle thought bitterly as Oakley snuck into place behind it.   

He saw her rise out of the grass like a specter, and heard the rabbit's horrified squeal. It fled through the mud like a furry black bullet. 

Doyle broke into a sprint, rushing at it, aiming to cut it off. Trying to anticipate where it was going to move. He guessed – correctly – that it would fly right by him. He skidded through the mud on his paws and somehow managed to reverse himself. 

The rabbit was in his sights again. He watched it dash across a narrow neck of land where the moors became a long bend into the forest, and scramble into the cover of the trees. Doyle pelted after it, already suspecting this was yet another race he wasn’t going to win. He went crashing violently through the bracken in time to see the rabbit drop into a small hole between the roots of a tree. The hole was overgrown by long grasses, and although Doyle saw it, his body missed it completely. He took two gaping bounds past the tree, whirled, and rushed back to paw furiously at the ground.  

“No good digging. They build their holes with a back door. He’s probably long gone by now.” Oakley told him when she got there. 

Doyle stopped digging. His fur was matted with sweat and dirt. His paws throbbed. His muscles ached. His throat was as dry as a bone, and it stung when he tried to swallow.  He had never felt so tired, or old, or inadequate in all his life. He came away from the hole and shook himself. Oakley ducked to avoid the spray of mud. 

"This ridiculous reverse-Pygmalion farce has gone on for long enough, wouldn't you say?" Doyle asked her in a rueful, degraded tone of voice.  

“I don’t know. Personally, I think you’re making progress.” 

"Don't patronize me." He spat. _"_ I know I can't hunt. I know I can't intercept. I'm only halfway-decent at tracking. I'll never be good at any of it, so what's the damn point?"  

He slumped to the ground and covered his nose with both paws.  

"It was a mistake to come up here with you.” he murmured glumly into the dirt. “I should have left it alone.” 

Oakley stared at him. "You really mean that?” 

Instant, apologetic sincerity – “No.” 

“Good.” 

“I _am_ a terrible hunter, though.” 

"No, you're not.”   

"I am. Admit it. I’m a lost bloody cause.”   

His voice was small and flat.   

“You’re not a lost cause. You're just, umm . . .” She spent a few seconds searching for a pleasant, inoffensive way to put it. "You’ve got disadvantages. That’s all.”   

“Disadvantages? I’m a useless fuck-trumpet, is what you mean.” Doyle replied with cheerful indignation. His empty stomach rumbled as if in agreement.   

Oakley placed a warm paw on the top of his head. “You’re inexperienced, is what I mean, scruff. But you’re getting there. It’s not going to happen all at once. I mean, did your drawing happen all at once?" 

"No." Doyle remarked, sounding pensive.  

"Exactly. Stuff like this takes time. You have to keep at it. Practice makes perfect.” 

"At this rate it'll take me an eon of practice to get it perfect. I'd rather give up, if it's all the same to you.” 

“And be a quitter? Come on! That’s not the Ian Doyle I know.” 

“The Ian Doyle you know is a sham, my dear.” 

“Tell you what. One more try. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll go back and I’ll order us some take-away. How does that sound?” 

He snorted, which sent a small cloud of dirt rising into the air.  

"Atta boy!" Oakley said. 

* * *

_[Sunday, September 6th. Afternoon.]_

_[A rabbit crouches under the briar. Her nose wiggles._ _Her whiskers fan. Her white tail flashes._ _The wind has changed direction, and carries a faint whiff of something awful. Something with teeth._   _The rabbit waits, still as stone,_ _watching the movement in the bushes ahead of her._ _She has a good, if not perfect, sightline through the interlacing branches. W_ _ith her ears pricked she can detect the quiet whicker of moving brush. The soft snap of a twig._ _A deep, rumbling growl._  

 _From behind the curtain of grass a shadow flickers._ _It seems to shift and bloat in a terrifying way._ _The rabbit watches it stalk slowly out into the open, and rear_ _up on its hind legs to loom over her. It is surprisingly big,_ _with huge, bulking shoulders and a pair of eyes like amber-glowing pits._   _The rabbit stares up at it with drugged, horrified fascination._  

 _The teeth have come to swallow her up._   _Quietly, cautiously, the rabbit ducks back down_ _to where her body is almost parallel to the ground,_ _and begins to slink backward, toward the safety of the forest._ _The monster's eyes roll to follow her._ _In the distance, the constant, monotonous drone of the buzzing insects dies away._ _The forest becomes quiet. Motionless._ _The rabbit's ears tingle anxiously. T_ _he thing with the teeth cocks its head this way and that, snorts once, and closes the gap between the them with startling speed._ _The rabbit turns and runs for the cover of the forest. ]_  

 

The rabbit was moving impossibly quick for her size. The rustle of the dead leaves beneath her feet, the rustle of the wind high in the trees. Flying through the blur of dark forest. Under the low-hanging branches and over the upturned roots, pumping her slender legs until her muscled burned and her feet fell heavy on the earth.   

Behind her, the ugly pair of teeth, gnashing for her shin. Attached to them, a set of wide, firm claws digging up fat clumps of meadow dirt. And the furious sound of snarling. 

 _Death is chasing me_ , she thought. _I am trying to outrun death itself._  

Diving now through a dense thicket, slipping a little on the grass as she sped up a hill and back down again towards a big ridge. Launching into the patch of trees. The close-knit branches clawing at her skin. Ripping tufts of fur out of her neck and hips.  

A fast glance behind her. The teeth were gaining. Crashing bodily into the branches without deterrent.  

She broke right, then left, then right again in an effort to lose her pursuer. No use. She felt her left foot sink into soft mud, and then her right foot strike hard against something solid. Some half-buried stone. She went skidding off into the path of a second set of teeth, directly in front of her. She went careening into it, unable to stop. Flailing madly as a blunt flash of fur smashed violently into her flank and sent her rolling along the grass. 

 _Death. Death caught me. Death trapped me between two teeth._  

She heard the rush of wind and her own little squeal of surprise. Saw her front paws fly haphazardly into the air. Felt her stomach somersaulting. Watched the dip of damp earth lurch up over her head as she slid down the muddy embankment.   

No panic. Only an overwhelming sense of exhilaration.   

There was a slow stretch of coming down where she saw the white sheet of the creek water roaring like a shrunken waterfall into the bubbling pool beneath the steep mouth of the embankment. Her reflection grew closer in its surface until, finally, she hit the shallow water with a stinging slap. There was a second's worth of jarring cold. Of splitting pain in her back and head. The teeth didn’t hesitate. They came snapping down the embankment after her and closed around her middle.  

She felt a terrible pressure compact her. Heard the sharp sound of bones crunching, followed by her own gurgled shriek. After that – black.

* * *

_[Sunday, September 6th. Late afternoon.]_

_[Doyle, at the base of the embankment, snarling with horrible menace, bristling and salivating, his golden eyes gleaming._ _In his second metamorphosis that day, we see the wolf consume him.]_  

 

At the first taste of warm blood Doyle felt something dark and primitive awake in himself. All his life the wolf had been vying for control, and he had denied it for one reason or another. Now, with the rabbit hanging limp and lifeless in his jaws, Doyle handed that control over without so much as a second thought.  

He clamped down hard on the rabbit and shook it like a rag-doll.   

"Whoa! Whoa!" Oakley barked from the top of the embankment. “Drop it, mister. I said drop it." 

Doyle came back to his senses and uttered a confused (and muffled) “Why?" 

She padded down to meet him. "You eat that rabbit now, you're gonna have to deal with passing it later. And let me tell you, rabbit-hair is probably the least pleasant thing to try and–" 

Doyle spat the rabbit out with a disgusted retch. What remained was nothing more than a gnarled bundle of bone and fur. Oakley sniffed at it. Her mouth was open, the saliva drooling. Doyle watched her lick her chops, and shivered.  

"Nice sized kill. Lots of meat there." She sounded pleased. Surprised, but satisfied. As if he'd somehow justified her high opinion of him. "Good job, my man.” 

“Your _wolf_ , you mean.” Doyle said feverishly. He leapt on her and they rolled together in the dewey grass, biting and yipping in voices that were almost human. "I can't believe it. I killed something. I actually killed something!" He shouted. His smile was wide enough to show the full length of his blood-splattered incisors. 

Oakley crouched and squirmed under him. "Yeah, yeah, mission accomplished. But don't get all cocky about it, now."  

Without thinking Doyle leaned down and licked her nose. It was pure, leisurely, wholesome – borne more from instinct and amity than from anything else.  

Oakley's face broke into a sly grin. "Thought you said licking was off limits, big boy."  

It took him a second to realize what he'd done. 

"Oh! I'm sorry – I just – I got carried away and–" 

"You're thinking like a wolf. Finally. And it's all thanks to me, right?" 

He gave her a warm smile. The gratitude was implied. Her arms went up around him and pulled him into a proper hug.  

"No problem, scruff." 

Doyle clung to her like an octopus. The embrace lasted an unusually long time.  

"Hey, you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Oakley whispered from underneath him.  

"Well, based on past experience, my saying no won't stop you – so go ahead." 

"You told me once that you never knew your dad." 

"Mmmm, that’s right,” he hummed, gently nibbling the fur along her collar bone. 

"Did you ever ask your mom if your dad was a wolf, too?” 

Doyle stopped nibbling and pillowed his head on her chest. “It never came up.” 

“How come? Weren’t you curious?” 

“No.” 

“Not even a little?” 

“He was never curious about me.” 

“But haven’t you ever wondered if maybe you’re half–human? Like, maybe that's why you were having so much trouble–" 

Doyle tensed on top of her. “Does it matter now that I've killed the thing?”  

There was an edge of anger in his voice. Oakley backed off.  

“No. It doesn’t matter. Sorry I brought it up.” 

Doyle relaxed against her. "That's alright." 

Oakley rubbed the top of Doyle's head with her paw, and he continued to groom the fur on her chest. Once or twice, a wave of desire surged through him, but he was careful not to act on it. Before long he pushed himself away from her and rolled onto his side to gloat over his kill. 

Oakley laughed and shook her head at him. 

"You're such a dork. You know that?" 

Doyle felt a warm serenity flutter over him. The pleasure of attachment. 

"Just because _you've_ never killed a rabbit the size of a hippopotamus . . ." he teased back.  

Their predatory mingling lasted until the sky turned overcast and dusky.  

On the way back to the cabin, Doyle walked with the rabbit dangling from his mouth. Proudly swinging it from side to side to create a kind of enticing pendulum effect. At one point Oakley jostled him off the path in a playful attempt to get him to drop the rabbit, but he refused to let it go.  

By the time they reached the cabin, the first few stars were already starting to peak out from behind the mellow clouds. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**13.**

**SEPTEMBER - Waxing Gibbous**

“The truth was she couldn’t do ugly things. She was too beautiful.”

― John Fowles, The Collector

 

“And I think the answer is that we are, in reality, terribly frail animals."

― Michael Crichton, Sphere

 

_[Sunday, September 7th. Night.]_

_[In the patches of early-evening sunlight, Ian Doyle stands serenely over the carnage of his first kill. He takes a breath, exhales. His eyes – wolf's eyes – glaze over and dull back to blue. He closes them._ _His ears - wolf's ears – block out everything but the ambient hum of his own mind, and the memory of the kill; the rabbit's frantic struggle, it’s death screams, expertly tearing through it's throat, hitting the jugular, breaking its neck and peppering the forest floor with warm, coppery blood._    

 _Doyle centers on feeling the kill. The instinctual knowledge of the wolf and the wild that is both simultaneously familiar and totally alien to him._  

 _In time the feeling fades, and the animal mind becomes confused. Images flicker and break up. Bestial thoughts intermingle with human thoughts, and finally, the wolf goes to sleep again._ _]_    

 

     
Fuzzy, white noise. The numbness of the change. Pelt to skin. Returning clarity.   

Doyle stood at the edge of the forest with crusted blood on his lips and dirt under his fingernails. He was naked, and his head was spinning.  

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.    

As a wolf, the scenery of the day had been unrelentingly gray. Now that he was a man again, the bright saturation of the forest assaulted him in a stinging, violent way. Every branch, every leaf, every tiny crawling insect stood out in spectacular, arresting technicolor. The wildflowers on the adjacent hill screamed to him like a car alarm. The yellow of a passing butterfly gleamed fierce neon like the hi-vis safety jacket of a nighttime jogger. And Oakley – who stood belly-deep in the tall grass a few feet away from him – she was a blurry kaleidoscope of harsh pinks and reds.   

Stunned by the breadth and depth of her psychedelic beauty, Doyle clamped both hands over his eyes and rubbed them hard. The response was a swirl of dancing violet-purple dots that blinked off and on again in dazzling patterns behind his eyelids.    

“You okay?” he heard Oakley ask from closer by.    

“Yes. No. Headache,” he managed dizzily. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”    

"Hell of a thing, isn't it. Like Dorothy coming to Oz."   

Doyle grumbled. If he squinted he could make out her sleek, pink shape stood-out against the green.   

"Is that you?" he asked, and saw the pink shape wave.  

"It's me. I'm right here." He saw her bend over and rise again holding a smaller, limper, browner shape. "Bugs' is right here, too, in case you were wondering."  

Doyle went to take a step in her direction and felt his knees wobble on the instep. He nearly passed out.   

"Oh, Gerry, help me, I can't–"   

He felt Oakley settle near him and put an arm under him, her hands cupped like paws, her head lowered a little. He was still grappling blindly at his eyes when she drew him upright.   

"Don't worry. It's normal to feel drained," she explained as she led him slowly along through the woods. "Taking your pelt off after a day of hunting is one of the most physically demanding things your body can do. Short of giving birth. Hell, if you think about it, you just shed an extra hundred pounds of additional muscle, bones, hair, blood – all in, like, the span of a couple minutes. Your body needs to replace that energy. It needs to refuel."   

Doyle mumbled incoherently. He was trying to focus on walking. A man’s feet were not like a wolf’s. They were soft and vulnerable, and there were so many things to step on in the forest. Roots and rocks and thorns and puddles of mud. It was hopeless trying to watch out for them with his failed eyesight.   

He hoped to God he and Oakley didn't wander across anybody on their way back to the cabin. The last thing he needed was some hiker, taking a leisurely stroll through the woods, spotting what looked like two wild-haired vagrants stumbling up the dirt path – the first of them old and sightless with his hands peek-a-booing his eyes, and the second leaner, younger, and prettier taking on the kindly role of seeing-eye-dog. It would be utterly humiliating, not to mention impossible to explain.   

Darkness fell quickly and the moon appeared, low in the eastern sky. They walked back to the cabin under it’s fair, silvery light.    

"Where are we?" Doyle questioned.   

"By the cabin. Right where we stashed the clothes."   

Doyle blinked."But we're already wearing clothes."   

It was only when the breeze off the lake raised goosebumps on his skin, that he remembered he was naked.   

"Want to get changed in there or out here?" Oakley asked him.  

"I'd rather not track dirt into Spencer's house, actually."   

"Fair enough. Hand me your collar."  

"What? Oh."   

He had almost forgotten he was wearing one. He took it off and handed it to her.  

Oakley left his side and he heard the whistling rustle of thin plastic. A moment later, Doyle felt her drop a pair of trousers and some socks into his hands.   

“Thank you.” he said.  

“Sure. Need some help?”  

“No.”  

Oakley waited for Doyle to orient himself.    

As his eyes adjusted, he saw her clearly. She was reaching up to slide the grocery bag back onto the tree branch. For whatever reason, she was trying to do it with her mouth. Her body was fabulous in the moonlight.   

 _Cover your shame_ , Doyle thought suddenly. His hands shot down to hide his twitching cock.    

Oakley half turned around.   

"You all right, scruff?" She asked, the strap of the bag between her teeth.   

Warm-cheeked, Doyle glanced up, using his hand to mask her nudity. Through his fingers he saw that she looked bright-eyed but weary.    

"I'm fine. Just groggy."  

She nodded once and pulled the cotton dress on over her head. Then she reached back into the bag and handed something over to him.   

"Here's your jumper, too." She said.  

As she gave his jumper, her fingers skimmed his for a brief moment. The touch crackled in Doyle's mind, and felt that truly human part of himself – that intense, repressed need to touch her – stir and wake fully. He backed up a step and put the jumper on. Pressed the front of it against his damp face and snorted, trying to clear the smell of slaughter out of his nose.    

"You ready yet?"  

"Not yet. Sorry," Doyle mumbled, stepping into the trousers without looking.   

"It's okay."    

Fumbling with the zipper – "You say that."   

The dashing, dignified wolf, the _killer_ , the part of him that was worthy of her adoration was gone again. Oakley was alone now with the weathered, austere old art dealer from Soho. He wished he could be more for her.    

He came back to himself almost regretfully and saw Oakley, rumpled and dirty, reeking of moss, damp earth, conifer, and old traces of smoke. Her hair was sopping wet with sweat and muck, her dress was stained ( _more than likely ruined_ ), and her knees and ankles were covered in dozens of tiny nicks and bruises. But she was smiling cooly, like she did whenever she lit a fresh cigarette.  

Doyle wanted to sweep her off her feet, carry her into the cabin and up the stairs, draw her a steaming-hot bubble bath, and help her wash the filth away.  

That was what he wanted – until he saw the dead rabbit at her feet.  

 _His_ dead rabbit.   

The sight of it shook him in a way he hadn’t expected.   

 _My dead rabbit? Mine?_   

The world seemed to tilt as the human mindset came back to him. He considered the magnitude of his actions, and was coldly disturbed. Had he really done that? Torn an innocent rabbit up with his bare hands and teeth?   

Had he really _enjoyed_ doing it?  

“Oh my god,” Doyle breathed, suddenly horrified.  

Oakley cocked her head at him. "Huh? You say something?"  

She came a little closer and tried to catch his eye. He turned away in time but she kept trying. The most she got was a quick glimpse of his brow, his eyelids, eyelashes – but never full-on eye contact. He heard her huff, and in his peripherals saw one sleek hand take up the dead rabbit. She sniffed it, inspecting. Then she came forward and took up his wrist. She went to put the dead rabbit in his hand.   

"Here, you want to take it back?”  

Sickened with guilt, Doyle pried her slick red fingers off his wrist and backed away quickly.  

"No problem, I can carry it," Oakley shrugged, not putting too much weight in the matter.  

She held up the rabbit, twisted it in the air by the ears. Watched it twirl a little. Doyle thought he saw her inscrutable face register a brief flicker of pity, maybe even regret – but then it was gone and she was smiling cooly again, so much of the wolf still in her face.  

* * *

 _[Back at the cabin, Oakley opens the varnished door and helps Doyle over the threshold. He wobbles and grunts like the old man that he is. Smell of firewood and matchsticks. Oakley lighting a fire. Doyle gasping at the feel of the warm air. Soon a flush rises in his cheeks.]_    

  

In the kitchen, Oakley went to the counter and set the dead rabbit onto a thick wooden cutting board. Doyle sat down at the table behind her, in the same chair he had occupied earlier that morning as a wolf. He watched Oakley take a large meat cleaver down from one of the hooks above the stove and begin cutting off the rabbit's paws one by one. The casualness of the act made him uneasy. She was chopping down hard on the rabbit with the cleaver. Hard enough to make his headache worse.   

At one point she picked through the scraps of loose meat, scooped something up, and tossed it his way.    

"For luck."   

Doyle reflexively caught the severed rabbit’s foot, blinked down at it, and was overcome with an inexplicable wave of revulsion. He hastily set the rabbit's foot down on the table.   

"Thanks." He wiped his hands on his trousers with quick, skittish movements.        

"Feeling squeamish, are we?" Oakley chuckled.      

"Yes, actually. I can't understand it."     

"Don't worry. That's normal too."     

"But why? Why should it bother me? I'm the one who caught the rabbit in the first place. I'm the reason it's dead."     

"What's ordinary for a wolf is usually pretty disgusting for a man."  

She set the cleaver down, pulled what looked like a small, gray femur bone out of the rabbit's leg, and started gnawing on it.  

"You change back, it's sort of like an answering machine." She said around the bone. "All the missed human reactions hit you at once. After a while, you get used to it. Have to build up your tolerance. That's all."   

"Looks like you're quite tolerant." Doyle remarked, the uneasiness steadily building. 

Oakley stopped chewing on the bone for a moment. Small creases appeared at the corners of her mouth.   

"My dad used to say, there's never been a werewolf politician."  

"I'm inclined to agree with him." Said Doyle. "Wolves are quite brutal –" He had only just come to realize this. "They're not known for being very compassionate. Or compromising."  

"Wolves aren’t, no. But humans are."    

Her tone let him know that it was important to note the distinction.  

"Wolves can't project or empathize the way humans can, so killing comes easier for them. For us. Once it's over and we're in our skins again the reality sort of sinks in, and we feel bad about what we did – because that's what humans do. The sane ones, anyway." Oakley paused to scratch her ear. Quick, sharp movements, like a dog. "If an ordinary human takes a life they feel bad about it," she went on, "Even the hardened ones. Seasoned hunters, military men, cops. The guilt is always there somewhere in the background for them, and for us too. The pelt just deflects that guilt until we've taken it off."  

Doyle summed it up grimly. "Sounds like we have our very own private slice of sociopathy to play with."   

The smile Oakley gave him did not involve her eyes. "Have to focus on the good part of it. Letting your aggression out, that part. Get some distance from the kill, scruff. You'll feel better for it."  

Doyle took her advice and let his mind wander off the rabbit and onto dinner. He was very hungry, and his head was killing him. He hoped some food would help. He gestured wordlessly to the stove, knowing Oakley would understand his meaning.   

"Dinner’ll be ready soon.” She told him, peeling the rabbit's skin off easily. "See? Comes off like a glove."     

"You're very good at that."     

"Mom showed me how. She's a pro."     

Another whack with the clever, and the rabbit was free of it's tail and head. Oakley sank the cleaver into the cutting board with a hollow _thunk_ , and moved over to the sink to run her hands under the tap. Then she turned to face him, drying her hands on her dress. Doyle's breath caught in his throat. The window framed the moon, and backlit by the pale light Oakley was a vision almost ethereal.      

"God, you're positively glowing." Doyle breathed.     

"Thanks. I feel great." Oakley said, a little dumbly. "I don't how to describe it. It's like . . . like fucking after eons of abstinence. You know what I mean?"

"I do."       

Quietly, she crossed the room and stood over him, still smiling, looking down at Doyle with such warmth it nearly made his heart stop.     

"Thank you so much for this, Ian." She said.  

Doyle swallowed. She was no more than an arm’s length away now. So close he could reach out easily and touch her thigh.   

"I don't know how I can ever repay you."     

 _I can certainly think of one way._   

Doyle froze. He had the vicious urge to pull Oakley onto his lap so that she could straddle him. He imagined the scene – Oakley, putting her arms around his neck, kissing him full on the mouth, writhing on top of him.   

He nearly choked.     

"Erm, repayment's not necessary. I already told you that. You don't owe me anything."   

She kept smiling. Lifted her hand to pat his head.   

Doyle felt the wolf’s personal bubble shrink and his own inflate. Before she could argue, he jumped to his feet and crossed to the other side of the kitchen.   

"When's dinner happening?"  He stammered.   

"Well, if you're really going to be that impatient about it, we could eat right now." Oakley suggested.    

"What? You mean – eat it _raw?_ "

"I took the fur off."

Doyle felt his stomach twinge. "No. I don't think I can handle raw rabbit, even furless raw rabbit. Not without my pelt, at least. You'd better cook it."  

Oakley shuffled over to the cupboards and started rooting through them until she found a good sized cooking pot and a can of mixed vegetables. She held up the can. "Think your friend will care if I use this?"  

"I highly doubt it."  

Oakley went back to the counter, wagging her hips like there was still a tail attached there, and began carving up the rabbit into sections.  

"Rabbit stew it is.” she said.  

"Can I be of any assistance?" 

"No, I think I can ha–" 

Somewhere in the cabin, a telephone started ringing.  

Doyle and Oakley looked at each other with quirked eyebrows. 

"Who's that?" asked Oakley. 

"No idea." Said Doyle.  

The telephone was in Hitsch’s study. A glossy black Lucy-rotary from the early 50s, it sat on the corner of the desk beside a thick yellow phonebook and a jar of old pens.  

Doyle answered it with a polite but confused "Hello?"  

Some static. Then a man’s voice – young and crisp and faint over the bad connection. _“Hello. Is this Ian?”_   

It took Doyle less than a minute to recognize the voice on the other end of the line.  

“Charles,” he said flatly. He should have let it ring. “This is Ian, yes.”  

 _“Is Geraldine there?”_ asked Weller.  

Doyle was tempted to say no. He was tempted to say a lot of things. 

 _She's unavailable. In the loo. In her pelt. She's decided she never wants to talk to you again._  

A defeated sigh.  

“Yes, she's here, Charles. She's just in the kitchen. Hold on, I’ll fetch her for you.” He set the phone down and leaned out the doorway. “Gerry, here, girl.”   

He watched her shuffle into the study.  

“Phone for you.” He spoke simply and clearly into the phone. “Here she is now, Charles.” He thrust the phone at Oakley. “It’s Charles. You should talk to him.”  

In a flash she was at the desk with the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder.  

“Bunny, hi!” She rounded the desk and took a seat in Hitsch’s old office chair. “I was just about to call you.” 

Doyle lingered in the doorway, watching Oakley with a sullen expression on his face. Waiting for her to dismiss him. She didn't. He started to leave. Oakley flagged him back, shaking her head. At the same time, she spoke to Weller. “Sure I miss you, bunny. Why wouldn’t I miss you? I hate it when we’re apart.”   

Doyle couldn't tell if Oakley was being honest with Weller, or just telling him what he wanted to hear.  

 _Who are you kidding? She’d rather be with him_. _Of course she’d rather be with him. Mr. Perfect Hair. Mr. Chiseled Cheekbones._   

Doyle felt a spike of unexpected anger flare in the pit of his stomach.    

 _What about me? What about the one with the pelt? What about the one who brought you up here and let you run around on all fours? What about the one you just went hunting with? What about_ ** _me_** _, Gerry? Don't I mean anything to you?_   

He kicked the door frame angrily. Oakley didn't seem to notice. He tapped his wrist like a watch. Impatiently motioning – “How much longer?”  

Oakley held up her hand in a tight pinching gesture and then flexed all five fingers out.   

“Not long, five minutes," she was saying.  

Doyle nodded. He began counting the seconds in his head. Five minutes later, Oakley was _still_ talking. Her conversation with Weller had turned into a mini-row.  

“I _did_ call Saturday, bunny. Honest. Okay, okay, fine, I _tried_ calling Saturday but the signal's just so damn shitty up here. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Your texts? I saw them. I _did_ reply. Did you not get my replies? That's so weird. Ah well, I'm not mad.”  

Doyle’s jaw was starting to ache from clenching his teeth.   

“Sorry? What? The landline? Uhm, well, I would’ve but we went out to a pub Saturday and by the time we got back it was pretty la–huh? Yes, I said pub. Me and Ian, of course. For dinner. No, for _dinner_. Well I don’t know, bunny, I guess they could’ve had a pay-phone there but I didn’t think to ask. What do you mean, why not? I don’t know why not. I was distracted. Oh, come on, it’s not that big a deal, is it?”  

From the doorway Doyle rolled his eyes. This was taking too long. He paced around the study, inspecting Hitsch’s bookshelves in a sulky, indifferent way while Oakley tried to calm Weller down.  

"We’re talking now, aren’t we? What, when I came back? Well I would’ve called you then but it's like I said. Something came up. I’m sorry, alright? Today? Uh, lots of stuff, I guess." She said in a hurry. "Hunting mostly. Ian got a rabbit. Real big one, too."  

Doyle felt his stomach tighten and his temper twitch. He wondered who's _rabbit_ was bigger. His, or Weller's. 

"Oh yeah, it was a lot of fun. Real invigorating, you know?" Oakley said, curling the phone cord around her finger in little loops. "Aw, I wish you were here to see it, too, bunny."  

Doyle suppressed a snarl.   

 _Damn Charles Weller, eating up my time with her_ , he thought bitterly. _Damn Charles Weller and damn me for picking up the damn phone for him._    

"Okay, well I have to go now, Charlie. Have to cook dinner. Poor Ian look's about ready to eat me right now." Oakley swiveled in the office chair so she wasn’t facing Doyle. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. I love you too, bunny,” she whispered quickly into the phone.  

Doyle flinched. It felt like something cold and sharp was piercing him strait through the chest.  

“I'll call you later. Bye.” At last Oakley hung up the phone and turned to give Doyle an apologetic smile. "Well that sure took forever, huh." 

Doyle lowered his head so that his gaze fell on the carpet.   

"Ian?"  

Doyle said nothing.  

Oakley came around the desk to him and put a hand on his arm. The touch burned. 

"What's up?"  

Doyle swatted her hand away and pushed by her.  "Nothing. I'm fine. Call me when dinner's ready." 

He hurried into the sitting room to stoke the fire. Oakley laughed after him. "Aw, you men are all so cute when you're hungry." 

* * *

 _[Above the cabin, a night time sky, cloudless and full of stars. From the surrounding trees, a chorus of crickets swells._    

 _Doyle and Oakley occupy the porch swing. Doyle stirs a bowl of stew with a stainless-steel spoon, warm in his blue jumper. Beside him, Oakley sips stew from her bowl like an orphan child._ _Beyond them at the water's edge a pair of ducks alight. Doyle and Oakley say nothing to each other for a while. Then, finally:]_      

  

"For Christ sake, go and get a spoon, Gerry. They're not silver, I checked."   

Oakley smacked her lips as loudly as possible and said "Nah, I can manage like this."   

To make her point, she dipped two fingers into her bowl, drew out a long strip of meat, and took a bite. A thin trickle of blood caught on her lips. Doyle watched, holding his breath, as her tongue darted out to lap up the stray drops. Then he scowled and looked away.  

"Such lovely table manners." He sneered. "Very ladylike."  

"Sure am." Some silence. Then – “Today was good. A good practice day. Know what I mean?” She set her soup bowl down and bumped her shoulder into his arm companionably. “You make a decent wolf, scruff.”    

"Aye, whatever," Doyle grumbled, rubbing his arm.   

"We'll catch something else tomorrow." Oakley said with a smile. "Can't have rabbit too many times in a row. Probably go for some game birds, I reckon." 

Doyle schooled himself to remain placid. “If you like.” 

"Hey, how's about I show you how to snatch a pheasant?"     

"For your fellow, you mean" Doyle muttered darkly.   

Oakley's smile drooped. "Huh?" 

"He did ask for one." Doyle clarified sharply. "And I was under the impression you wanted to please him. Especially since you miss him so much. Frankly, I'm surprised you weren't on the phone with him all night."  

Oakley kept her voice level and her eyes on the forest.  

"Jeez. Got chilly out here, all of a sudden," she said. 

"It's perfectly fine," Doyle snapped, as if she had somehow contradicted him.   

"You seem a little on edge, scruff. Anything wrong?"   

"No." 

She eyed him dubiously.  

"My back hurts from running. That's all." Doyle said. "I'm fine. Everything's fine." 

As usual, Oakley got to the point at once. "You're peeved at me for talking to Charlie. Aren't you." 

"Of course not," Doyle said in a childish, petulant voice.  

"Yes, you are." 

"Don't be ridiculous." 

"I can read it on your face, scruff." 

"Well stop,” he said harshly. 

Oakley shrugged, "Okay." 

For a while sat beside from him on the porch. On the edge of making contact. Towing and testing the line. Brushing his foot with her own, subtly rubbing against his thigh. Pressing her calves against his, grazing the tops of his hands with her fingers.    

Every time he scooted away, shrank back, hid, she followed him. She couldn’t stop trying and not trying to make it happen. Touch. It was so desperately intimate.    

“Stop it.” Doyle growled.     

"Stop what?"   

"Behaving like an animal. Snap out of it now." 

"I'm just giving you what you want." 

She caught his hand. He tilted away from her. She let go and he looked away, stroking his wrist like it she's burned it. His face was pinched. 

He heard Oakley sigh. "Well, it's not attention you want, I guess. Could've fooled me, though." 

The fur on Doyle’s neck bristled, but he said nothing.  

Oakley put on her best analytical tone. "It's not the food that's pissing you off, either. You ate it fast. And you're not tired. You're too alert to be tired." He felt her eyes rake over him. "What is it?" 

Doyle stood quickly and went to the porch’s far edge, bristling and tense in the cool blue twilight.   

"Talk to me, man. We were having a good time. Then there was this whole severe mood shift." said Oakley. "How come? Why are you so riled up?" 

"You want to know why I'm so riled up?" The words curdled out of his mouth. "I went to all this trouble to bring you up here. I bent over backwards to make you comfortable and happy, put my damn pelt on in front of you even though I was – was embarrassed, exhausted myself hunting with you, trying to please you. And the second he calls, you forget about me. The bloody second he calls, I – _this_  – stops existing. You're meant to be on bloody holiday, Gerry. Remember?" 

He turned pointedly to look at Oakley, and saw surprise in her pale face. Then understanding. 

"I get where you're coming from, scruff," Oakley replied carefully, "But I don't really care for where you're going with it." She slid the soup bowl aside so she could stand and meet his eyes. "I'm sorry if I made you feel neglected just now, but you're not the only person in my life. I owe Charlie some of my attention. Holiday or not. You can respect that. Can't you?" 

Oakley's vision was a little too clear for Doyle's liking. He opened his mouth to tell her off, but the scathing remark he'd settled on evaporated in his throat. He cleared it, and tried again.   

Oakley beat him to it. "You don't want to open that can of worms, my man." Her face had scrunched into a sad scowl. Her eyes glittered a dangerous yellow. "I get that you're not used to any of this. It's been a real weird day for you, and you're probably worried about maintaining this friendship, but smothering me and isolating me from Charlie isn't the way to do it."  

She crossed the porch to him. Put a hand on his arm. Again, the touch burned. "So let's just forget about this little bump and go back to having dinner. Okay?" 

Doyle shut his eyes, opened them. Exasperated. His anger subsiding in the light of her plea for civility.  

"Sorry," he muttered quietly. "I'm an ass, aren't I." 

Oakley nodded.  

"Forgive me?" 

A long pause. Oakley seemed to make up her mind about something. Without warning she came and grabbed Doyle in a hug that made him whimper slightly. Then she released him, and the pair smiled at one another. Warm, thankful smiles.  

When they were sitting down again, Oakley asked him "Happy again?"     

The question was only mildly serious.    

"Are _you_?" Doyle countered.    

"Yes."    

"Then I'm happy."    

Oakley broke the hug to narrow her eyes at him. "I hope your happiness doesn't hinge entirely on mine."    

"No," Doyle said, a small smile playing on his lips. "But it plays a big part in it."    

Oakley seemed to think about that for a while. Finally, she said "I'm glad we came up here together."   

Doyle watched her finish off the soup. Beneath the cold cast of moonlight the broth on her face looked shadow-black. He wanted to lick it off.   

"We can do this again, you know." He whispered, leaning toward her.    

"We're going to. We have three more days up here."   

"No, I mean, we can do another weekend. Next weekend, even. I can arrange it."      

Oakley’s eyes lit up. “Sure, I–" She stopped herself. “Actually, next weekend’s not so good for me. How about next month?”   

“Of course.” Doyle said. A brief beat. “May I ask why next weekend doesn’t work for you?”   

She had the box of cigarettes with her. She quickly brought one out. “Uh, well, next weekend Charlie's going to take me out for a birthday dinner."    

"It's his birthday next weekend?"    

Cupping a match against the wind as she lit her cigarette – "No, it's mine."   

Doyle's eyes widened. " _Your_ birthday?" The gears in his mind started to spin rapidly. "I have to get you a gift. I mean, another gift – after the souvenir gift. What do you want? I'll get you anything. I'll–"    

Oakley placed a hand gently against his open mouth and he stilled.     

"Scruff, man, really, Charlie's got the gifts covered. You don't need to worry about it."    

She removed her hand from his face and he immediately licked his lips.     

"Happy almost birthday," he said, a touch of sadness and a touch of arousal in his voice.    

"Thanks. Going to be a good one this year. Moon'll be full, and you know how I get when the moon's full."       

He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. "Erm, but won't this hunting trip have helped with the depression?"   

"No, I mean, I tend to get a little _wild_ when the moon’s full.” She hinted.   

“Ah. And when you say wild, do you mean you get aggressive, or . . .”   

“I mean I get _frisky_.”    

"Frisky?"      

"Yeah. You know. Like how bitches have heat cycles and –"   

Doyle gave a curt nod. When he looked over at Oakley he knew at once that she had registered his distaste.   

“Sorry. Too much information?"    

“No, no. I want you to feel like you can tell me about these kinds of things. Sharing, aye?” Doyle said, forcing a tight, placating smile.   

“In that case, fun fact about me – I get _real_ touchy-feely around the full moon. Like, damn near insatiable actually, so I figured maybe you and your whole not-super-into-touching policy might want to avoid me next week.” Oakley put forward.   

“Noted,” Doyle replied, keeping his eyes on the forest.   

He did not press Oakley for details, even though he wanted to. Instead, he focused on the sound of the chirping crickets, intending to drown out the rush of blood in his head. Beside him, Oakley finished her cigarette. He watched as she flicked the stub away – a spiral of tiny orange embers extinguished by the speed of their fall. Doyle sighed, a little shakily, and the night yawned darkly around them.  

* * *

 

[ _They go to bed around 11pm._  

 _Oakley falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep in under ten minutes._ _It takes Doyle considerably longer. Laying forever in the awkward cabin bed, staring up at the ceiling, his rumpled brow alternating between sweaty and dry, the rabbit slowly digesting in his stomach – he thinks of Oakley, her rich sent still on him, unsure now how to feel about everything. Later, he twitches in his sleep like a dog.]_  

 

Oakley woke at dawn the next morning, and after a fast shower crept down the hall to Doyle's door. She knocked twice, quietly asked if he was decent, and got no answer. She came into the room to find him draped in sheets and shadows, snoring loudly, one foot dangling off the edge of the worn mattress.   

Quietly, she went over to the window and spread the curtains, washing the room in warm sunlight. She came back to the bed, bent over Doyle, and lightly shook his shoulder until he started awake.  

"Rise and shine, scruff." She said softly, retreating to what she thought was a good, polite distance from the bed.  

Doyle peered up at her, puzzled for a moment because he was no longer asleep. His blue eyes grew wide as they settled on her. An owlish turn of his head to the door. He seemed to remember.  

“You've showered,” Doyle said in a scratchy, compact voice.   

Oakley nodded. Strands of dark, wet hair were plastered to her face and neck.  

“How you feeling, scruff?”  

Doyle told her he was stiff and sore. That his back ached and his joints throbbed. It was true. He could hardly move, let alone sit up.    

“Hunting’s a helluva workout, huh?” Oakley laughed.  

“Mmm,” groaned Doyle. “Are we . . . hunting again today?”  

“That’s right.”  

“Any chance you’d let me have a recovery day?”  

“Nope. But don’t worry, you’ll feel better when you’re back in your pelt.”  

“Right. Are we, erm, changing now, then?”  

“Yup. Thought I'd wear this during." Oakley tugged the edges of his long, green dressing gown tighter around herself for emphasis. Doyle looked surprised. "Anyway, I'll turn around now. You can change in the bed, under the sheets. Sound good?”   

“Yes, thank you," Doyle said appreciatively.  

With her back to the bed, Oakley let the familiar vale of numbness fall over her. When she was finished changing she turned back around and tossed the dressing gown at Doyle.   

Soft rustle of fluttering fabric. Doyle caught the gown between his enormous, gray paws.    

"The trick to catching a bird is to go for one that's molting," Oakley said later, as they were heading into the forest. "A bird that's molting can't take off as quick, or fly as high. There's honestly no other strategy for them than that. But worst case scenario, if we can't catch a full grown bird, we can raid a nest or two. Raw bird eggs are the best."   

Doyle nodded, sagged and pale, moving very slowly on his feet. His yellow eyes were red around the rims, and he looked ground to a stump with exhaustion. Oakley hoped a bit of exercise would bring him back to life.  

By noon the shadows were vanishing, and the day was warming up. Occasionally Oakley would call Doyle's attention to an unusual flower, or a bird watching them from a tree. Doyle would respond to whatever she said with a soft, adorable flash of teeth.  

At one point she came out of the grass and found herself face to face with a grouse. The bird made a startled rise, and she struck it instinctively with her paw. As it smashed down to the grass, she pounced on it, and caught it in her teeth as it tried to scuttle away.  

The lust to kill was suddenly on her. She forgot about Doyle. About teaching him. Forgot about everything except the roar of blood in her head, telling her that this live thing in her mouth was _meat!_ And that she should destroy it. Reminding her that the first living thing she had _ever_ destroyed was a bird. A starling that had fallen out of it's nest, back in Wyoming. She could remember coming across the tiny thing as a pup in-pelt, how she had held on to the wing and growled while she shook it.  

She was shaking the grouse now, the small bones crunching in her mouth. The grouse trilling wildly, like the turkey she had killed with her brothers once. An image of the enormous bird popped into her mind then, bloody and ravaged, surrounded by bristling fangs, it's boisterous outcry loud and garbled, how it struck at her with it's good wing, pecked at her nose and ear, the feathers flying around them like a snowfall. All of it, more than ten years old now but fresh enough in her mind to taste. 

The grouse ceased it's struggling. Oakley felt the life drip out of it. It was thrilling and exulting in the same way it had always been – would always be – as if no time had all had passed between her last kill and this one.  

When Oakley's senses came back to her, she glanced up to see Doyle staring at the dead grouse, something like awe and respect on his grizzled features. A touch of arousal in his eyes. 

She showed him how to de-feather the grouse with just her paws and mouth, and eat it raw. 

Afterward, they continued down into the fern covered ravine. Oakley breasted her way easily through the high grass, driving up an occasional bird and then giving chase. After a while she made Doyle try. It took him six different attempts, but in the end he managed to catch himself a fledgling jack-snipe.    

By late afternoon the sky was grey and the clouds were slowly advancing over a pink-orange dusk.  

A storm was rapidly moving in.  

Oakley led Doyle down to the creek, and then across into a patch of ragged farmland. Coming back along a shallow trail, they encountered a high fence enclosing the forest, secured by a big gate with a chain and padlock. There was a handsome gray barn a quarter-mile beyond the gate, and a few bleating sheep near to it.  

There, well within the shelter of the overarching trees, Oakley made Doyle try and pluck the jacksnipe so they could try to eat it raw. Sat down contentedly on her haunches, she watched him struggle with the limp bird, and when it was clear he was becoming frustrated, she offered her help in soft growls and whines. 

Doyle answered her with a terse snarl – insisting he could do it himself, only to give up on plucking altogether a few minutes later.  

“Bet you feel changed now that you're getting the hang of it, huh?” Oakley asked him, hoping to resurrect the lightheartedness.  

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Doyle said. The words came out muffled by a tuft of feathers. 

“Oh come on. There must be a difference in the way you view yourself now that you’ve killed something? I mean, something _besides_ a housefly.”  

Doyle shrugged. “I don’t see myself as a killer exactly, if that’s what you mean.” He extended and retracted his claws as he spoke. Clearly, the wolf’s odd dexterity still bewildered him. “I do feel more like a proper animal, though. A little less odd running around in my pelt and all. It’s growing on me.” His eyebrows came together. “I wonder if this is what it’s like for nudists, at first.”  

Oakley giggled.  

“Oddness aside,” Doyle said, “I’m excited to be out with you again.”    

“Don't I know it." She flashed him a coy little smile. "You really liked my little practical demonstration with the grouse back there, huh.”   

Doyle smiled back at her. A good smile that softened the lines on his forehead and made the ones around his eyes crinkle.   

Oakley padded over to him and touched his neck with her muzzle in a reassuring way. Doyle forgot the bird and sniffed noses with her. Pressing her nose into the crook of his neck, she went to drag her tongue along his cheek.   

Doyle jerked away. 

“No. No licking." He said firmly. "We talked about this yesterday. No licking. Nothing that could be misconstrued as a kiss, remember? Sniffing’s alright, but absolutely _no_ licking.”     

Oakley wagged a claw at him. “Ah-ah-ah. Did you forget who licked who after the rabbit-hunt, Mr. Smart Guy?”     

Doyle snorted at her. “Fine. _Some_ licking. But nothing . . . ehem . . . prolonged.”     

"Right. No tongue baths. Gotcha.”  

Quick flick of her tongue across his cheek. 

"Play with me?" she said. 

He was blushing hard through his fur. "Be serious, Gerry." 

"Aw, come on. Play with me for a minute." 

"Gerry–" 

She made a show of leaping and whining in an absurdly puppyish fashion. Trying to entice him to join her. Amused, Doyle half-crouched and sprang after her, and together they indulged in a quick game of tag. After that they ran side by side through the quiet forest until they found themselves at the far-east shore of the lake. Together they dashed up the bank in a wild race. Right away their legs became entangled on the slippery pebbles, and they rolled together in the wet. Their flashing teeth, catching each other tenderly wherever there was loose fur. Gentle nips and bites. 

Abruptly Oakley broke off the mock-battle and moved a short distance away. She stood under the swell of a tall tree's shadow and gazed up at the wide, gray sky, totally mesmerized. An ache rose in her throat.  

Beside her, Doyle was motionless and alarmed. 

He spoke up. "Gerry, are you alright?" 

"Mmm." Said Oakley. "Beautiful today."   

"It's starting to rain, I think."   

"Yeah," she said dreamily. Little droplets dotted the dry pebbles under their paws. "Want to howl?" she asked him. 

Doyle looked unsure. 

"I've never howled." He told her. 

"Really? Never?" 

"No." 

"Not even as a cub?" 

"If I did, I don't remember it." 

"Let me guess. Mother prohibited howling."   

"Yes."   

"Sorry.” She rubbed his nose companionably with her own. “Mother’s not here now, though. Is she.”  

Doyle twisted and stretched uneasily. "I really don't know, Gerry." 

She half-marveled at his reluctance. "Aren't you supposed to be a rockstar or something?" 

"That's different."  

"Less different thank you think. Here, how about this – I'll sing lead, you do backup. Sound good?" 

With that, Oakley sat down, pointed her nose at a cloud, and started howling.  

The feeling – the act – of singing was somewhere between pure bliss and pure melancholy. Seated beside another wolf with her eyes closed and her long face upturned. Crooning that single, monotonous vowel between O and U. And all around her, the vast Scottish wood. In that instant, Oakley felt everything at once. An exhilarating sense of freedom that only came to the truly wild animals. 

After a short time Doyle reared back, and mirroring Oakley, pointed his nose at the sky. His mouth opened, and a heartbroken cry bubbled up out of his trembling throat. All of his loneliness and fear, his grief and resentment, all his past sorrows and miseries and sufferings summed up in one, long, full-throated, mournful wolf-howl. The first howl he had ever uttered. And although the song was at it's core something undeniably forlorn, the sound of Doyle’s howling to Oakley's ears – perceived as not just the howling of another wolf, but of Doyle's voice in particular – was like some angelic quire echoing through her head. She had never before in her life heard a sound so beautiful. So soft and sad and soulful. Even her own father's howl was nothing compared to Doyle's.   

"Anybody ever tell you that you sound like David Bowie when you sing?" she asked him after they were finished.  

Doyle couldn't speak. He turned away to collect himself. 

Overhead, the rain was picking up. The falling drops made a kind of disjointed clamor as they struck the pebbles and bounced off.    

"Think we'd better pack it in now, Gerry," Doyle suggested at last.   

"It's only sprinkling. Don't be such a baby." 

Feeling totally at ease, she pressed her belly to the beach and rolled onto her back beside Doyle. With her paws folded neatly at her chest, she watched two black falcons circle lazily on a rising column of warm air. White stomachs black against the gray rain and wind.   

"How do you figure the story goes?" she asked Doyle. He was sitting stiffly beside her now, watching her with round, mirthful eyes. "How do you think we became these sad, two-legged creatures, anyway?"      

Doyle ruminated on the question.    

"Perhaps it had something to do with love," he offered.      

"You think so?"      

"Oh yes. I imagine some poor wretch of a wolf saw a woman–"      

"A woman?"      

"Well it's always a woman that makes a monster want to be a gentleman, isn't it."      

"We are _not_ monsters."      

"I know that. I was being poetic."      

"Yeah, well, _I_ think it's all one big dream. Like, what if we're really just a pair of wolves that dreamed we could shape ourselves into people?"      

"That's a very Kafkaesque theory you've got there, Gerry."      

"Kafkaesque?"      

Doyle shook his head. "Never-mind."     

The rain against the water grew harder and the wind colder until the lake was a churn of angry waves. 

"Getting cold, huh." Oakley barked.     

"Cold? It's bloody Baltic!" Doyle said with a miserable whine. He was drenched and his fur was starting to clump.   

The sound of waves crashing against the beach masked the rustle of movement nearby. Oakley's ears pricked.    

"Listen. You hear that?" She asked, suddenly alert.    

"Hear what?"    

Instinctively, she lifted her snout into the air and sniffed.   

"What is it?" Asked Doyle.  

She sat up quickly. "Squirrel."    

"Eh?"    

" _Squirrel._ "    

Before Doyle could respond, she darted off into the brush after it.   

The squirrel sat by a fallen log, idly picking with it's paws at a small acorn embedded in the dirt nearby. 

Oakley tensed her legs to run. Came out of the bushes like a bullet, veering when she felt the sharp slicing twinge of metal instead of grass, the squirrel spooked and zigging away.  

"Wha–" 

It happened fast. The wire caught her hard around the ankle. She spun, her back paw pulled taut, and she pitched forward thinking _nothing it's nothing I'll get up and brush off the dirt just give me a minute_. For a long time she lay sprawled on the patch of grass by the snare with her face turned up to the rainy sky – gun-gray and roiling cold above her. Head spinning. The wind knocked out of her.  

The squirrel was under the belly of the log now. She could smell it. Her right paw ached. 

It was too much of a struggle to see past her stomach. She shifted a little, sucked her gut in and squinted at her right paw. It was swollen and throbbing. The bulge at the ankle was as large as a golf ball. The paw twisted off at an awkward angle, pulled crooked by a tight band of metal wire.  

She tried to sit up. There was a sudden, fierce flare of pain. Her eyes opened, wide, glossy, too full of shock to see. The pain _excruciating_ , like a band of thorny fire snarled around her ankle. She squalled with hurt and astonishment. Something hot and wet dripped down her hind paw along with the rain. She was stuck in a trap, and bleeding. 

"Fucking unreal." 

Instinctively she made to remove her pelt and free herself – but her inflated leg, briskly reshaping into the pink calf of a woman, only drove the wire further into her skin. Hissing savagely, she shrank her leg back into it's canine shape, and felt the pain decrease.  

There were a few dry sobs before the tears came. The rain dotting her cheeks while she cried.  

* * *

 _[Oakley's wailing is a noise that guts Doyle. In a rush he follows a broad path carpeted with pine needles that leads off among the trees, and finds Oakley floundering on the wet grass, yanking at the base of a steel-wire fox-snare planted behind a hedge._  

 _The snare is coiled around her back leg – digging into the skin hard enough to draw blood._  

 _There is no delay of shock.]_    

 

Doyle’s paw leapt to cover his mouth and arrived there as a hand. “Oh my god.” 

Oakley glared up at him. Her eyes were wide and wet, and she was snarling. Doyle couldn't believe what he was seeing.    

Kneeling beside her quickly, "Hold still, let me look at it." 

"Don't touch it!" She shrieked. 

"I'm not going to touch it. I'm just going to look. I have to." 

Oakley nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her paw like a child. Her wailing quickly degenerated into a waterfall of colorful obscenities.  

“Son of a bitch, mother-fucking, cock-sucking god damn piece of _shit_!”   

Doyle gaped at her. 

"Those fucking assholes," she ground out. "Those cunt-licking assholes. Who the fuck sets wire traps anymore!"     

Doyle blinked back angry tears. "Please try to keep still, Gerry. I think your ankle may be broken. I've got to dig the stake out so I can loosen the loop and free you." 

Oakley's body was stretched across the wire, which came out under her hip and disappeared into the soft ground at her flank. Doyle crawled to the spot where the wire disappeared and clawed into the soft earth until his fingers scraped against something smooth and firm. Hunched over the hole, he threw up the soft, wet soil, unearthing a narrow, metal stake the length of a tent peg. 

"Fuck," Doyle spat. 

"What?" Oakley's voice was uncharacteristically shrill. "What is it?" 

"I can't pull the wire off the stake. The attachment's welded on." 

"Shit." She cleared her throat in a flimsy attempt to hide her fear from him. "Uh, o-okay, can you, uh – can you try and break the wire?"  

"I would have to yank on it." 

"No, don't–" 

"I wasn't going to." 

She struggled to rise. "Can you try biting it?" 

Doyle said "Stay still, dammit." 

"Just try biting it," Oakley insisted.  

With the peg out of the ground, Doyle was able to bring the wire to his mouth. He let his face distort so that his fangs could grow, and bit down on the wire with as much force as he could muster. But it was no good. 

"The wire's too strong," said Doyle. 

Oakley's face crumpled and squeezed together in a terrible way. "So you can't get it off?" 

"Maybe I can loosen the bit around your ankle." 

Doyle passed his hand along Oakley's hind leg. Her ankle was wet and sticky. He tried to get a hold on the wire so he could pull it up. 

Oakley grit her teeth. "Don't." A hiss. "I said _don't_! You're making it tighter when you do that!" 

Doyle stopped. His hands were caked in her blood. He wiped them off in the rainy grass. 

"Better plan, better plan," said Oakley. "Take me back to the cabin."     

"You mean move you? Are you mental? You've got a broken ankle, Gerry."     

"Just do it," growled Oakley.  

Doyle was at a loss. "Gerry, you're not thinking straight–" 

"I'm thinking fine god dammit!" She sucked in a sharp breath and in a slightly less frantic tone of voice she said "Look, you can find something at the cabin to get the wire off with. Okay?" 

Doyle started to rise. "I'll go back myself. Come back with something." 

" _Please,_ no. Don't leave me alone out here, Ian. Take me back with you." 

Doyle eyed the wire cutting into her leg with building despair. "Alright," he said finally. 

Infinitely gentle, his heart pounding, he lifted Oakley in his arms. Her pelt was slick and cold, hard for Doyle to hold at first. He raised his eyes in anguish, the spray of rain water on his face. Another flash of lightning, illuminating the darkening forest. Doyle collected himself and started back to the cabin with Oakley. He moved very slowly, careful not to jog her. The shock of the moment had robbed him of any impatience – although a feeling of great urgency was still there, and swelling.   

Despite the hesitant pace, Oakley voiced agony with almost every step.  

"Ah, fuck! I ever find the asshole who set that trap I'm gonna bite his dick off!"    

To make Oakley feel less awkward, Doyle joined in with his own litany of profanity. "Right, you bite his dick off, and I'll ram it up his ass. The fucking wanker." 

By the time they reached the cabin Oakley could barely speak. Her angry barking had turned to short, agonized yips.  

\------ 

 _[Sudden flash of lightning cuts through the foliage. The dense forest alive with movement. Trees swaying in the wind and rain._  

 _Doyle comes out from behind the brush, graceful as a dancer and carrying Oakley, walking barefoot across the lawn to the tree, snatching up the bag of clothes. Up to the cabin and o_ _ver the threshold wi_ _th this bleeding bride. Down, in front of the fireplace.]_  

 

Oakley curled herself into a ball on the hardwood floor of the sitting room. She was shivering violently.  Doyle thought she looked like she was fending off an invisible assault. He went upstairs, grabbed the quilt off of her bed, came back down and threw it over her.  

"I need to stop this bleeding." He tried to keep his hands steady as he removed his jumper from the tree-bag and wrapped it tightly around Oakley's ankle. "Everything's going to be okay."   

"Bullshit." 

"Not bullshit. You'll heal once you've changed back. Even I know that." 

"Yeah, only I _can't_ change back without slicing my fucking foot off, genius." Noticing the jumper, "What are you doing with that, anyway?"     

"Making a tourniquet," Doyle said, fiddling with the knot.       

"You don't need to – "  

She screamed suddenly in mingled surprise and pain. 

Doyle stilled. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – "     

"It's okay. It's okay." She was breathing heavily, puffing out the words in-between winces. "Stings like a motherfucker." 

"I'm sorry, but you need it."  

He tied off the tourniquet and jumped up. Then he was in Hirtche’s studio, desperately searching for something strong enough to cut the wire.    

He spent close to five minutes rummaging through the trunk by the window, overturning shoeboxes, tipping tin cans, spilling out the paintbrushes, riffling through the paint-encrusted tubes and acrylic-covered pallets.   

He looked everywhere, even though he had no idea what he was actually looking _for_. He knew there had to be something – _something_ – he could use to get the wire off of Oakley’s leg. But it wasn’t in the tool-littered trunk or in any of the cluttered desk drawers. It wasn’t on the desktop, or underneath it on the rug. And it wasn’t behind the knicknacks on the bookshelves, or in-between the stacked books either.   

The more he looked for it, the less he found, and the more imperative the situation seemed.  

“Spencer, you bloody great prick!” Doyle shouted, hoarse with dismay. “There’s fuck all here!”     

It was true. Hitsch did not keep wire cutters, or anything that could be used in place of them. No chisels, no pliers, no exact-o-knives, no pengutiks, nothing for wood-working or sculpting. Not even a fat, clunky palette knife.   

Doyle found useless butter knives in the kitchen, disregarded the butcher and bread knives altogether (too big, too dangerous), found twine and tape and a spare box of matches in one of the drawers below the cupboards, and finally gave up. 

“For fuck’s sake!”    

He slammed his fist down on the counter loud enough to jolt Oakley. In the sitting room, she tried to stand up and limp to him on three paws. But the quilt tumbled off of her, tangled with the snare-stake, and she went tripping over both of them with a startled cry of pain.   

Doyle came running in from the kitchen.    

“Gerry!" He sat on the floor and put his arms around her. "Are you alright?”   

“Do I look alright, fuck-face?” Oakley asked waspishly.   

Doyle ignored the question and helped her back under the quilt.    

“I couldn’t find anything to take the wire off with," he told her.  

"No, no there's got to be something," grunted Oakley. The rush of adrenaline had ebbed away. Now she sounded tired. "Here. Let me look. I can find it." 

She was determined to stand. Doyle, hosting her up by her armpits, said "There's nothing. Honestly." 

Oakley rocked forward into Doyle's naked chest and burst into braying, ugly tears. "I'm going to lose my paw. Jesus." 

Doyle held her in a safe and steady hug. "No you're not, Gerry." 

"All I wanted to do was hunt again," she wept. "Jesus fuck, I'm going to lose my paw." 

"Gerry, I need you to calm down for me." 

"How am I supposed to calm down, huh? You can't get the wire off. That means either I heal over it or the damn paw's going to lose circulation and rot." 

"I'll take you to hospital–" 

"You can't, I've got my pelt on. They won't treat a wolf at the hospital." 

Doyle thought a moment. Suddenly, an idea came to him. His eyes stole back to the studio, then to the front door. He helped Oakley back to the floor.   

“Wait here,” he said, making for the studio again. He found the big Scottish telephone book by the can of pens on Hitsch’s desk. He brought it out, quickly thumbed to the V-section, found the address he wanted, and pulled and pocketed the page.    

Brisk running, back in the sitting room, reaching for Oakley.  

"Come on. We're going to the vet."  

Oakley jerked backward fast enough to almost fall again. "No! No vets!"   

"Why the hell not?"   

"Because!"   

Doyle watched her questioningly. "Because why, Gerry?"   

"Because I – I –" Grudgingly, guiltily, "I got a thing, alright?"   

"A thing . . . ?"   

She flapped her paws at him. "You know, a thing! A thing!" Then, quietly, looking away, "I can't do veterinarians, man. Veterinarians put wolves to sleep." 

"Don't be ridiculous. Veterinarians don't–"   

"They do! Veterinarians kill wolves. I just can't do it, so don't make me."   

"I won't let anything happen to you, Gerry. I'll see to it that no one tries to put you down. I promise." 

She shook her head. "No way. Not going to happen." 

Doyle threw his arms up in exasperation. "Fucks sake, Gerry, you're being ridiculous! You have no reason to be afraid!" 

"I can be afraid of whatever I damn well want, asshole. You're afraid of snakes, aren't you? It is what it fucking is."   

Doyle gave an angry sigh. He stood up and jogged into the kitchen. At Spencer Hitsch's wine closet, he snatched up a bottle of vintage red. Back in the sitting room, he thrust the bottle of wine at Oakley. "Drink that. All of it." 

"Why?" 

"Liquid courage." 

A snarl from the bleeding wolf. "If you think you're going to get me drunk enough to want to go–" 

Doyle spoke with exaggerated precision to express his anger. "Like it or not, it's happening. I'm taking you to the veterinarian, Geraldine. So you can either bitch and moan about it, or you can drink. The damn. Wine."  

Like a toddler she caught up the corner of the quilt and held it to her cheek and sobbed, bitter tears falling with a hollow tap tap on the floor by the dark fireplace. Doyle had seen her a few times on the brink of real tears, but never full-on crying before. It scared him to see her so hurt and afraid. He waited until she was finished, and then drew the cork for her. 

* * *

 _[Rain water cold on Oakley's face, wine and spittle dripping from her open jaws. Dizzy. Something soft under her, sloping. She turns her head. Doyle looms above her in a fresh dress shirt and thin coat, his bony shoulders outlined against the damp brown material. His hair springy and wet in the wind._ _The lines on his face impossibly deep._  

 _They are approaching the Connal Animal Hospital now.]_  

 

Soft thud on wet glass. The swish of a door. Oakley was twirling with Doyle into a bright, white room. 

Her eyes closed on the old man cradling her. The white room receding into hazy black. Fluttering open again. A flash of green cracked ceiling. The swipe of fluorescent light. What seemed like an endless series of corridors, white walled and reeking of antiseptic. 

The heels of Doyle's shoes tapped across the smooth tile floor with a hypnotic regularity. Oakley rising, Doyle handling her, setting her softly, tenderly down. Laying her on a firm, flat surface. A surface of dry paper, waxy and cool and comfortable against her limp body.      

Fingers tickling Oakley's paw, lifting it gently. Voices murmuring in the haze.  

Slosh of liquid. The sensation of being drunk. The pain of her ankle ever-present. 

She felt a bug land on the scruff of her neck. Felt the bug become a butterfly crawling. Felt it sting. Felt the thin fast needle withdraw and her body radiate a numb warmth. The tiny wound did not even bleed. 

The pain dissolved. 

Oakley went to sleep. 

* * *

_[Monday, September 8th. Early evening.]_

_[Dusk in Conall, the autumn sun setting purple-pink behind the high-street buildings. Dipping below the final roof. Disappearing. Stillness in the rustic trees and gardens now. The smell of fresh pine and warm asphalt lingering.]_    

   
Around five, the wind started to pick up. By six, the starry sky was blanketed with angry, black clouds. Before long the leaves began to rustle. A rough breeze blew some crumpled newspaper-pages across the car park of the Conall Animal Hospital. The storm had reached town, and as the last street lamp flickered on, the storm broke. A wall of rain coasted over the animal hospital, drenching the red bricks brown. Inside, Edward Gibson listened to the heavy drops drumming on the corrugated metal roof as he unbuttoned his jacket in the empty waiting room.  

Marlene Mackenzie, the receptionist, sat behind the front desk reading a horror novel. 

"Looks like I only just made it, eh?" Gibson said, tilting his chin at the roof. 

Marlene Mackenzie ignored him in favor of her novel. Gibson prattled on anyway. The day had been a long one, and he wanted to talk. John Fergus' pregnant mare had gone into labor at dawn, and he had spent nearly the entire day attending to it. 

"Bloody thing couldn't have started the day before, when I was _supposed_ to be there. Oh no. She waited until the day _after_ the damn checkup. Of course she did. Well, anyway, it's a healthy foal, in case you were wondering. John let his daughter pick the name. Applejack, officially. From that damn silly pony show or whatever it's called." 

Mackenzie murmured an uninterested "Aye", and turned to the next page. 

"Been very busy today, Marlene?" 

"Aye." 

Dubious, Gibson looked around the empty waiting room. It was small primarily empty, and like the rest of the hospital it rarely saw much action.  

"Who came in today?" asked Gibson. 

Mackenzie closed the novel partway, marking the page with her thumb. "Well, let's see now. Mr. Finch brought his parrot in. His blue macaw." Although her tone was slightly more conversational now, her eyes never left the novel. "And Sarah Pillar's boy came in an hour or two ago with the family retriever. Just a quick checkup. Doctor Shelly saw to it himself." 

Gibson nodded. "He and Sanders head off home already?" he asked Mackenzie. 

"Aye." She had the novel open again. 

"Makes me the last one left then, eh?" 

"Aye, it does."  

Another page turn. Gibson dawdled in the waiting room, desperate for conversation. 

"Oh, that reminds me," said Mackenzie when she realized he was still there. "Mr. Gordon called for you. Shawn Gordon. Wants you to go out to the farm tomorrow, have a look at his goat when you've got the time. Supposedly, it's been coughing up a fit. Didn't know goats _could_ cough, actually," she added with a shrug. 

Gibson sighed. Of the three veterinarians that worked at the small, poorly funded Conall Animal Hospital, he was often the one called on to handle livestock-related issues. He had grown up on a horse and sheep farm just outside of Highland Perthshire, and not only had experience with farmyard animals, but a talent for sensing what was bothering an animal before its owner ever described the symptoms to him.  

Outside, thunder rumbled. 

Gibson decided to return to his small office in the maze behind the front desk. There he busied himself with some manila patient-folders, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk (as if this aspect of his job suddenly meant something to him) until gone seven. Then, he made his way back to the waiting room under the excuse of wanting to check and see if the rain had let up. 

"Still tipping it down," he commented to himself with a frown. 

"Aye," said Marlene Mackenzie.    

Peering out of the wide front windows, Gibson watched the rain. Before long he saw a tall, skeleton man appear. In the mist the man looked like an elongated specter, with a nose that threatened to devour his face and eyebrows that threatened to escape it. He was carrying something in his arms, half-covered by a large coat.    

Gibson wondered what was so urgent that anybody would want to come out in this weather.    

Curious, he watched the tall man fling open the big glass hospital door and come into the waiting room back-and-shoulders-first. His gray hair hung down over his face. His clothes were soaked and dripping. When he finally caught his breath, he began shouting frantically, calling for a doctor.  

Mackenzie started to come around the counter to intercept him. Gibson beat her to it.    

"Sir, please, there's no need to sh–"    

The tall man turned and Gibson caught a glimpse of what was under the coat. He gasped. The man was carrying a massive dog – bigger even than a St. Bernard. It was writhing and whimpering in his arms. The fur on its back leg was caked in dry blood, and there was something small and metal dangling from it.   

"She's got a snare around her," said the man. His voice quavered as he spoke. Gibson could tell he was struggling to keep himself together. "Some bastard cunt set up a snare and it broke her ankle!"    

Gibson had a split second to decide how to handle him. Soft and soothing, or stern and rational. Gibson opted for the latter.     

"Erm, right, you need to follow me, sir," he said to the man, using his sternest tone of voice. He started to lead the man around the front desk and into the surgery. Mackenzie stared after them with wide eyes.   

"Will she be alright? Can you help her?" The man asked Gibson.    

"I won't know until I get a better look at her." Gibson told him.    

"Please – you have to help her. She's in pain. I'll pay you whatever you want."    

"It's just through here." He indicated the second door on the left. Behind it was a stainless-steel trolley with a tray of medical instruments, and an examination table with a tall anglepoise lamp spotlighting its surface.   

Trotting alongside the tall man, Gibson directed him to set the dog on the operating table, and then told him to back away.    

"Is she your dog?" 

"Yes." 

"Was she adopted, or bred?" 

"I don't know. I found her. She was a stray." 

Gibson heard the London clip in the tall man's accent. He wondered if the tall man had grown up nearby, and then moved to London early on in his life. Possibly. Though he could have been a tourist.    

Gibson leaned over the table to inspect the dog. He noticed that it smelled vaguely of tobacco. And fermented grapes. 

"Has she got any conditions I should know about?" Gibson asked the tall man. "Any allergies?"  

"Silver."  

Gibson gave the tall man a confused look, but the tall man did not see it. He was too busy glaring at the tray of medical instruments.       

"Are any of those silver?" He asked Gibson, ringing his hands together in a frightened, fidgety sort of way.    

"Titanium." Gibson said. He recalled having seen the tall man before, recently. He could not think from where.    

"What about your wedding band?"     

"I don't have one anymore," said Gibson.    

The tall man seemed to relax.  

Gibson grabbed his little medical torch and again bent over the dog. He could see the light from the torch cast back in it's eyes, like twin headlights approaching from a distance. Silvery-green in the light, they shined with startling luminescence, as if lit from within.   

"What's the dog's name?" Asked Gibson.     

"Geraldine." The tall man licked his lips, discreetly sniffed back a few tears. "She answers to Gerry, too."    

Gibson nodded and placed a comforting hand on the tall man's shoulder. "And your name?"    

"Ian. Ian Doyle."    

Gibson nodded. "Ian, I'm Doctor Gibson." He always felt proud introducing himself as a doctor, even though he was only a doctor of animals. "Now, I'm going to do everything in my power to make your dog well again. All right? But first, I need you to tell me a little bit more about what happened."    

The man's face became a sad, anxious little smile. When he was finished talking, Gibson said “She’s lucky. The wire hasn't cut very deep. Another inch and she’d have lost the paw, I think.”  

He poked at the oozing skin puffed around the wire. The dog twitched and whined under his hands.     

“Have to get the wire off, do a quick x-ray of the ankle," Gibson continued. "If the break is small, I can set it and apply a cast right away. If not, I may need to operate.”  

The dog's ears seemed to prick at the word _operate_. It uttered a low, menacing growl. Gibson decided it might be a good idea to muzzle the dog. He had a clear picture in his mind of the creature springing fully awake and biting off two or three of his fingers. Once the muzzle was in place, Gibson stepped away. The dog immediately raised it's head and tried to rub the covered tip of it's snout, gently, along Gibson arm. 

"Trying to coax me into taking this off, eh, old girl?" chuckled Gibson. He tapped the mask affectionately. "Afraid it's a wasted effort."   

The dog gave an angry snort through the mask.   

“Gerry, please–" Doyle started.     

The dog's tail slapped violently against the tabletop, as if in argument.    

“I know, I know, but it's only for a bit,” said Doyle. He looked up at Gibson, "It won't really come to surgery, will it?" 

"I doubt it. I'll know more once I take the x-ray. Either way, she’ll have to be put into a wheeler and a cone when she wakes back up, so she doesn’t take the cast off. The leg should take about a month to heal. She may suffer some residual joint pain, possibly arthritis. And of course she’ll have a scar around the ankle." Gibson flashed him a confident smile. "Other than that, I’d say she’s going to be just fine.”  

“Just fine,” Doyle parroted weakly. 

On the table, the dog gurgled up a high, distorted sound – almost as if it were trying to speak.  

Doyle paled. "Well!" He said quickly. "What are you waiting for! Give her something. Knock her out. She's in pain. She's suffering." 

Just then, Doyle's panicked eyes seemed to shine with a unique interior light. A cold phosphorescence not unlike what Gibson had seen when he flashed his little medical torch into the face of the wounded dog.    

“Erm, sorry, how old is Gerry?” asked Gibson, faltering a little.   

“Old? Thirty I think. I mean, thirty in dog years.”   

“How much does she weigh?”   

Doyle looked the dog over. “I've no idea. About seven stone?" 

Gibson prepared a mild sedative based on the dog’s age and weight. Something designed to prevent post-surgical pain and keep it to a minimum during and after surgery.   

“This should take the edge off,” he told Doyle.   

There was a large, multi-reflector light on a rod attached to a wheeled pedestal beside the table. Gibson swung it around with his free hand so that it glided into place just over the dog’s chest, and switched it on.    

A sinister, wailing cry from the dog.    

"She thinks you're going to put her down," Doyle said, as if translating. 

"Put her down? Why on earth would I do that?" said Gibson as he poked the needle into the skin of the dog's neck, just below the chin.   

The dog growled, relaxed, and shut its eyes.    

“Is she asleep?” asked Doyle.   

“Yes. I have to prep her now. When last did you feed her?”   

“Last night, around nine.”   

“And she’s had nothing to eat since then?”   

“No.”   

“You’re absolutely sure?” pressed Gibson. “There’s no chance she’s gotten into the garbage or stolen a biscuit or–"   

“A bird," Doyle confessed. "She tore up a bird this morning, but she didn't eat very much of it. Only a bite or two. It was a small bird. And she did a lot of running after she ate it."   

Gibson nodded gravely. He took pre-surgery preparations very seriously. If a dog was scheduled to undergo surgery, there was a strict rule about not feeding it for at least twelve hours beforehand – otherwise, the anesthesia could cause the dog to vomit, and potentially asphyxiate during the operation. But in the case of Doyle's dog, he doubted a bite or two of bird would cause and problems. 

He turned away from Doyle. "There’s tea in the waiting room, Mr. Doyle. Go have some.”    

Doyle gave the dog's paw a reluctant squeeze and left the room.     

While the dog was sedated, Gibson retrieved the portable Vet Rocket X-1 from the x-ray closet down the hall. The X-1 was a clunky yellow suitcase made of smooth, hard plastic – designed to offer superior image resolution for diagnostic imaging wirelessly. It opened to reveal a compact digital imaging system that included a MinXray’s TR90B Battery Powered x-ray unit, a Canon DR Panel, and a ruggedized laptop with Canon imaging software. The entire unit came complete with a large, square-shaped radiology camera. 

The finished x-rays showed a minor greenstick fracture in the left hind fibula, nearest the tarsus. Gibson determined that it would not require surgery. 

He shaved the dog's leg around the wire, checked and cleaned it’s teeth, and trimmed it’s toenails. At the sink he donned a pair of clean scrubs and a mask, and washed his hands thoroughly. Sterile and fresh, he returned to the table, clipped the heart monitor leads to the dog’s chest and stomach, and draped several strands of surgical tape to the table corner just in case. 

He was in the process of readying the tube for delivery of the surgical anesthesia when the dog suddenly jerked awake and bared it's teeth through the muzzle. 

Gibson leapt at the sound and whisked to face the operating table.    

“How in the–?”   

The big dog snarled again and tried to wiggle off the table. For one absurd moment Gibson wondered if the strange, hulking animal was really a dog at all.  

 _Could it be something stronger? Some kind of wolf-dog hybrid?_  

Gibson quickly prepared another sedative injection, bent over the dog, and took hold of one of it's massive paws. He slid the long needle into its exposed wrist this time. The dog stopped struggling. It wheezed once, stiffened, and then went totally limp. Gibson set the needle on the tray, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, removed the muzzle, and inserted a brace to hold the dog’s mouth open. Next came the anesthesia tube and the Isofluorane.   

When Gibson was sure the dog was out cold, he pulled and prepped the necessary tools, and got to work taking the wire off.    

* * *

 

 _[The waiting room is done in bright, solid colors and smells distinctly of chemicals. The dehumidifiers pump a fresh blast of cool, dry, filtered-air in every ten minutes.]_    

 

Doyle waited on a tired plastic couch by the hospital door. His body was wet and cold, and his shirt-sleeves were stiff with blood. His nerves were in a proper state. He felt somehow both wired, and entirely sapped of energy. Like a zombie he listened to the low, rhythmic thrum of the spinning ceiling fan, flipped through the stack of tattered magazines beside him, gazed into the empty space of the room. Trying to maintain his composure. Struggling not to hate himself.    

It was his fault Oakley had gotten hurt, and the truth of it peirced him deeply. He turned the scenario over and over again in his mind, rifling through all the ways he could have prevented her injury, searching desperately for something that would have relieved him of the guilt.  

Some explanation that ended with "It wasn't your fault, not really". 

White walls, spotless tiles. The slow, steady beep of the heart monitor in the surgery down the hall.   

Once or twice Doyle looked up at the receptionist, hoping to see a fellow worried face, but she was occupied with her horror novel. Of course she was. She dealt with the owners of injured animals every day. The novel was vastly more interesting than Doyle's plight.  

Eventually, the anger came back out. He focused it away from himself and onto whatever bastard fuck set that trap by the lake. He wanted to get his paws on the son of a bitch and tear him to pieces.  

He pictured dragging the bloody, faceless carcass of the trapper back to Oakley and presenting it to her like an apology gift. The image was both comforting, and appalling. It clashed with the guilt and brought it up like a water funnel. 

It wouldn't matter how he apologized. Oakley would hate him when she came to. This time for sure, she would hate him. Even if he groveled on his knees and begged her for forgiveness, she would hate him and blame him, perhaps almost as badly as he blamed himself, and then she would refuse to see him again, forever – and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.  

By the time Gibson was finished taking the wire off, Doyle was visibly seething.  

* * *

 _[Stirring, Oakley tries to come back. Blackness – heavy, hazy – swims in her eyes. Smothering her. Cocooning her in inescapable exhaustion. There are sounds in the blackness. Sounds coming through the haze. The crisp jangling of keys dropping on tin. The faint rustling of cloth. No sensation in her ankle.]_  

 

Oakley was having trouble placing where she was. She couldn’t quite remember how she got there. She had been running in the forest. That much she knew. Running, trying to get a squirrel. The memory circled in her mind, a sluggish carousel. She groped for whatever it might mean, but for a long time the answer evaded her.  

Movement in the room where she was. Light splashed behind her eyelids. She opened them, saw the blurry circle of the lamp like the moon above her head and the round-faced man leaning over her, blotting it out like a mountain. Shifting now as a new head reared into view. 

Doyle's voice, low and soothing and familiar, drifted over her like soft, velvety gravel.  

"Look at you. So strong." 

She wanted to lick his face, but she couldn't move her neck. She settled for wagging her tail instead.  

"It's okay, you're okay." 

She let the voice lull her back into the haze.  

* * *

[ _The other side of the operating room. Gibson hunches over Oakley, his hands moving delicately.]_  

 

Once the wire was removed, Gibson set to work closing the wound. Sloppy stitching could be chewed out by the dog or allow the incision to become infected – but Gibson had a steady, practiced hand. He chose to use the dissolvable sutures from the cabinet. Every five minutes, he would glance up to check the dog's heart and respiratory rates while he worked. The heart and respiratory rates were recorded on a chart behind him. Gibson only had to adjust the anesthesia once during the procedure. He was amazed at the dog’s persistent ability to stay awake. He had never seen an animal so unaffected by anesthesia before in his life. 

When he was finished, he checked the dog’s heart rate again, and then set the cast. While he was applying the plaster, the dog's eyes fluttered open.   

“Ah. Awake yet again, I see,” Gibson chuckled.    

The dog’s expression clouded and it relaxed. It’s eyes were still open, but it seemed to see nothing at all.    

“Maybe not,” Gibson said.   

The dog’s eyes closed and opened with the same blank expression.   

"You'll be happy to know that your cast is almost dry. Shall I go and let Mr. Doyle know you survived? Poor bloke's a right mess out there, I bet."   

The dog let out a series of short, pacified gurgles.    

"Righty-o, then."   

Doyle had one of the magazines on his knees when Gibson came into the waiting room, but he wasn't looking at it. His eyes were trained ahead, staring numbly at the wall thermostat. Gibson said his name, and he started with a small squeak of surprise.   

"Oh! Yes? Is she–? How is she?"   

Gibson looked at Doyle’s pale, strained face, estimated his capacity for further truth, and told him the extent of the dog's injuries – promising that everything would be alright. "I got the wire off, stitched up the leg. No surgery needed. Gave her a cast, and a second round of sedatives, for that matter. She tried to wake up on me."    

Doyle tensed. "Did she sa–erm–That is, she's resting now?"   

"Yes," said Gibson.   

"May I see her?"   

"I'll be moving her to our kennels shortly."   

"I'd like to see her now, please, if that's all right."   

Doyle had started ringing his hands together again. He looked like he could fly off the sofa at any second. Gibson felt sorry for him. He wondered if the dog was some sort of support animal.     

"Normally I wouldn't let you," Gibson began. "But I think this time I'll make an exception. Follow me.”   

The sight of the big dog lying on the operating table, looking strangely wasted and small, shook Doyle.     

“Oh,” he said, close to tears again. “Look at you.”   

Gibson moved an IV stand so Doyle could come closer. He watched the sullen man take up the dog's big paw.   

“Look at you. So strong,” rasped Doyle.   

The dog’s tail beat feebly on the table for greeting.    

Gibson spoke in a voice that was calm and steadying in its medical efficiency. "I need to apply the final bandaging on the cast, and put the cone on. Won't take long at all. She's going to be just fine, Mr. Doyle."    

The big dog stirred on the table. The plastic airway holding open it’s throat hissed in time with the respirator.    

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Doyle said, trying to soothe it.    

“She really is,” Gibson agreed. “In fact, when I took the wire off, I noticed something. The cut had already started to scar over. Even before I cleaned and stitched it, it looked like it was healing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”  

"Does this happen often? Do pets usually get snared in the woods around here?”   

“Sometimes.” Gibson eyed him up and down. “Exactly where do you hail from, Mr. Doyle?”    

“Originally? Glasgow."  

"But you moved to London in the end?"  

Doyle nodded. His mouth twisted into a sinister sneer, and it was at that moment that Gibson made the connection.   

 _He was the one sitting with the dark haired woman Saturday night in the Bonny Owl. He's her step-dad or something. If this is their dog, though, where is she? How come she's not here with it now?_    

"Who sets the snares?” Doyle asked suddenly in a low, choking voice.   

“Farmers, mostly. Some hunters. Whoever owns the land,” said Gibson.   

“By the lake, we – I mean _I_ saw a gray barn. It was fenced off, and there were sheep. Who owns that land?”   

Gibson stroked his chin. “Well, that would either be Charlie Orton, or Bill Campbell. Hard to say without a specific location. But Charlie’s more libel to be setting up snares than old Bill, I reckon. On account of Bill’s wife loving rabbits and foxes and that. She has a hutch of rabbits at their farm. Old bird can’t stand the idea of trapping something anything fuzzy,” he chuckled.   

“So it would be Charlie Orton's snare, then?”   

Gibson frowned. “Would you like me to tell the police what’s happened to your dog, Mr. Doyle?”   

For a moment, only a moment, a dark cloud passed over Doyle’s face. His eyes seemed to expand and sparkle dangerously, like twin firecrackers igniting. Then he shook his head. The darkness cleared.    

“No, there’s no need to involve the police,” he told Gibson. “Have you still got the wire, though? The wire from the snare? May I have it? Please, it isn’t for anything, just – thank you. ”    

Gibson watched Doyle smell the wire _,_ and then pocket it with a shaking first. He stood there for a long time after, running his hand across the dog's round stomach, down its hip, itching the skin by the edge of the cast.     

After a while Gibson decided it was time to put him out. Doyle walked away heavily, as though hobbled by some invisible weight.   

* * *

_[Oakley comes awake for the second time to the sound of more talking. Her head spins, her ankle throbs dully. Her fur is pleasantly dry.]_

  

Oakley opened her eyes. The operating table below her felt like a raft floating on gentle ripples. The doctor stood over her, a wispy ghost. He whispered little echoes to her before he walked away. 

Her fear was gone. 

Slowly, her vision grew less clouded. The operating room stretched out around her. She could see the tray of instruments off to the right, and the big screen of the heart monitor blinking on and off to her left. She let out a gentle wine and tasted plastic. Felt something heavy on her tongue, pressing it down and out of the way. 

It took several slow seconds for Oakley to recognize that the muzzle had been removed. Bleary-eyed and drunk, she lifted her chin and sniffed. Foul smelling ointment, powdered latex, old dandruff. The smells made her sick, gave her the feeling of floating outside her own head. 

 _Or maybe that's the wine_ , she reasoned.  

Gathering her strength, she pushed herself up on her elbows and felt the pain in her ankle curl a little. Instantly dizzy, she flopped back down again. For a while she listened to the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. Counting the tiles on the ceiling. Waiting for her head to stop spinning and for her ankle to stop throbbing. The fur there felt weirdly constricted and snug. 

 _Hey . . . Wait a minute. . ._  

A single, clear thought bubbled into her head. 

 _I don't feel the wire anymore._  

With this in mind, Oakley tried again to prop herself up on one elbow. The position made her chest heave and her ankle sting slightly. She ignored the pain and looked down, expecting to see her ankle – swollen and bruised and twisted unnaturally by the wire, as it had been before. Instead, she saw a thick, fiberglass cast that covered the ankle and the shin completely.    

 _Huh. Okay then._  

Flailing a little, she peeled her pelt back enough to see if she could slip out of the cast. She couldn't. She was condemned to her pelt, stuck now in a new way. 

* * *

 _[Gibson speaks to the dog as he packs up the unused gauze.]_  

 

“You’re one sturdy girl, you know that? Remarkably sturdy.” Gibson moved over to the cabinet, his back to the dog. “Aye, I'll put you in the kennels, pop off down the pub, and have myself a nice, tall frosty one. Might tell the boys all about that owner of yours, too. Smelling the wire. Christ. I mean I've had nutters in here before, mind you. But your Mr. Doyle takes th–"  

All at once the dog changed.    

In the glossy cabinet door Gibson saw the folds of it’s muzzle bleed together like melting plastic. It’s empty eyes bulged and spread like bloated balloons. It’s cheeks twitched, it’s mouth yawned, it’s nose shrank absurdly.   

The entire front of the dog’s head contracted, and the mass of straggled, black fur that covered the skin became a dark mop of hair.   

Hair that Gibson recognized.  

He watched, horrified and amazed, as the dog’s shaggy face stripped away in the door. What remained was the visage of something human. A pale woman with thick, glossy lips and a set of small, yellowed teeth.    

The dark-haired woman from the pub.  

Gibson let the tray of gauze and suchers slip gracelessly out of his hands. It landed at his feet with a brittle clang. He did not look down to check it. He simply turned around to confirm what the reflection had shown him.  

All he saw was an ordinary dog laying on the operating table, awake.   

Gibson was quiet for a long time. Then, abruptly, he began to laugh. A stunned, half-frightened, half-gleeful sort of laughter that went on and on, swelling until it attained a pitch of lunacy.   

Then he fainted.   

* * *

 _[Geraldine Oakley with a large, bandaged cast on her leg, wades out of the operating room. She is heavily drugged, limping fast on three paws. Following the scent of Ian Doyle to the waiting room.]_    

 

Doyle heard some laughter and looked up from his magazine to see Oakley come skittering drunkenly across the linoleum at him.   

“Jesus! What–”   

She leapt into his arms and, momentarily forgetting her size, tried to scramble onto his lap. He caught all seven stone of her right in the gut.    

“Oof!”   

He fell back against the chair, Oakley straddling him, her wet nose in his eye.   

Behind the front desk, the receptionist finally put her novel down. "Oi! Oi! She can't be out here now. She's meant to be in the kennels, recovering. Oi! Here, now–"  

She hurried around the desk to tell Doyle off, but before she could get close enough, Oakley whirled, mouth open in a snarling yawn – half testing how far she could stretch her jaws without the muzzle on, and half drunkenly-enraged by the interruption. 

The receptionist skidded to a halt, turned, and fled down the corridor behind the desk, calling out for Doctor Gibson to come and help.  

Oakley spun back around to face Doyle, her great brush of a tail wagging jovially. Doyle watched her sink down to sit haphazard at his shoes. He knelt on the floor to meet her, and took up her head in both hands. Gently, he touched his forehead to hers. Tears of relief welled in his eyes.    

"We should go now," he said, stroking the fur along her massive chest.   

Oakley scrunched up her snout in agreement, and let him sweep her into his arms again.  

Moving fast out of the waiting room, under the dripping hospital portico, back into the downpour. Doyle covering the cast under the coat. From across the car-park, he could hear what he thought was Doctor Gibson's voice – shaken and babbling.    

“. . . have to listen to me . . . was just here . . . huge, enormous, and after I knocked it out, it –”  

And the startled receptionist, trying to calm him. 

"But that's just mad, Eddie! I mean that's just positively _looney_!" 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

 

###  **14.**

**SEPTEMBER - Waxing Gibbous**

 

“Just those three words, said and meant. I love you.  

They were quite hopeless. He said it as he might have said, I have cancer.  

His fairy story.”   

― [John Fowles](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10039.John_Fowles), [The Collector](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1816452)  

    
  

“He is the same, but everything is different.”   

― [John Fowles](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10039.John_Fowles), [The Collector](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1816452) 

 

_[Monday, September 8_ _th_ _. Night.]_

_[Oakley lays in her wide cabin bed under a soft blanket. Doyle stands by, shifting on his feet, wishing he could do more for her.]_  

 

After Oakley's breathing went quiet, Doyle bent to her and buried his face in the strong fur of her neck. He put his head to her chest and heard her fast, dim heartbeat through the blanket. He removed his shoes, and quietly climbed onto the bed with her. He made sure to take up as little space as possible. Oakley jerked slightly in her sleep, and then relaxed again.    

With two hands, Doyle reached under the blanket and lifted her great paw to feel the underside of the digits and the roughness of the pads there. Setting the paw back down, he brushed the blanket back and ran his hand down Oakley's foreleg, toward the cast-covered ankle. The coarse fur slid across his palm, springing between his fingers. Smooth, soothing pats. The way you would comfort a sick dog. He felt Oakley's pulse rise and fall under the sleek coat, and brought his hand to smooth the ruff around her neck. He felt her twitch and tense. Heard her murmur a few, lazy little  _roo-roooo-roo’s_ , like coughing, before she slipped off to sleep again.     

Doyle swallowed hard and put his head on her hip, sprinkling her fur in the quiet dark with warm tears. Silently sobbing as he took in his brave friend.     

Eyes stinging, he aligned himself with Oakley's back and lay fully down above the covers with her. Fearful of unwarranted retaliation, he waited a good ten minutes before gently tucking one hand between the pillows cushioning her head, and then wrapping the other snugly around her midriff – retreating an inch or two every time he thought she was about to stir, and then retaking the inch (and then-some) after making sure she was still asleep.      

Doyle indulged in this chaste half-cuddling with Oakley for an hour or so, dozing in and out of consciousness. Their bodies fit together undeniably well, and while Doyle was happy to have Oakley in his arms at last, he was also made miserable by the circumstances that had put her there.   

Outside, the rain was letting up. An owl wheeled in the night sky, announcing it's flight with a single, shrill call.    

Doyle slept without dreaming, and woke later, restless with worry, only to find Oakley devoid of her pelt, and himself, bracketed up against her ample bottom in the bed, his chin on her head, his long legs resting between her slender shins.     

She looked unnaturally pale. Sweat stood out on her forehead. Her shapely leg had shattered the cast from the inside like a bird hatching out of its shell.   

She was in the process of healing.   

Doyle stared at her slack face, her full lips – parted ever so slightly in sleep. For a moment it was as if they had just made love, and he felt intensely grateful to be lying next to her.    

Silence.   

In the dark room Doyle twisted on the bed and bent over Oakley’s leg. Slowly, delicately, he removed the discarded bandages and bits of broken cast from the ankle, and lightly licked the skin clean. Curling his tongue away again, he held her taste in his mouth for as long as he could stand not to swallow – savoring her like wine, her scent strong in his nose and heavenly.   

Exhaling now – "God, Gerry."   

Guilt and self-reproach far from his mind, he remained with Oakley for some minutes after, gently playing with her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear, marveling at how soft and fresh-smelling it was.     

"Mmmbunny . . ." Oakley sighed suddenly. "Cut it out . . ."     

The guilt then, hard through him like a spear.   

Doyle felt his heart shrink. He quickly disentangled himself from Oakley, slid back to the far end of the bed, and rebuked himself severely for feeling any kind of pleasure in her suffering.    

After a long second he got up, quietly went downstairs and got to work mopping up the patch of dried blood in front of the fireplace. It was an hour later when he decided it was time for a shower.     

At the bathroom-sink cabinet, he cracked open an aspirin sample pack and swallowed two dry. At the shower tub, he peeled off his clothes like a wet bathing suit. They slapped to the floor as he stepped into the tub. Soon he was enveloped in a thick fog that shut out everything but the pounding of the water on his head. There was soap in the tub – a half-melted bar that smelled of spice and sandalwood and Spencer Hitsch. Doyle ignored it and scrubbed his face using the palms of his hands, stirring the clouds of steam with his elbows.   

* * *

 

_[In the cabin bed, Oakley's face is gray. She is sweating._   

_She sleeps, safe from the fear and the pain. Safe from the pull of the restraints, the sting of cold wire and sharp needles, her own dull unhappiness. Safe in the eye of the hurricane until, finally, she is drawn upward through what feels like an endless layer of thick cotton._ _By a smell._   _She wakes, aware that she is not alone._ _It is the smell of her own kind. The smell of another wolf.]_   

 

Oakley woke briefly in the pine-smelling semi-dark, knowing in some primal way that she was in a safe place.   

_Home, in London._   

She twitched slightly where she lay, and felt a deep soreness in her ankle. Then she fell away from consciousness again. Dreamed. Woke some time later to the scent of fresh soap and the sound of running water.  

_Somebody's taking a shower_ , she thought, stretching lazily.  

When she put an arm over to touch Charles Weller, she found that the other side of their bed was empty. It was several minutes before her sluggish mind concluded that he must have been the one in the shower.   

She rose slowly, reluctantly, from the warm bed. Her mouth was stale and it was an effort to move her limbs.Part of her thought it would have been sweet just to lie there, thinking about nothing. Pull the blanket up over her head and shut out the noise. But there was something she had to do. Something she had to speak to Weller about. It was important, even though she couldn't quite remember what it was.  

_Something about a wolf._   

Yes, there was a wolf waiting for her somewhere.  

_Outside_.  

She had to convince Weller to help her search for it.  

Oakley slipped on the green dressing gown she found draped over the bed-knob and ambled out of the bedroom – awake and not awake, her eyes shallow with recent sleep, the gown whispering over the floor as she headed for the sound of running water.   

Down the hall, the door to the bathroom creaked open and shut.   

Oakley squinted through the steam, searching for the tub and Weller. It was difficult. The world seemed to exist on the far side of a gray scrim curtain.   

She found her way to the bathroom sink ( _Why is it on the wrong side of the bathroom?_ ), checked herself in the mirror – her reflection swirled and shimmered like oil on asphalt – and rooted in the cabinet for nothing in particular. Eyedrops, bandaids, toothpaste, rubbing alcohol, cologne. A condom?   

_Not Charlie's brand. Huh._   

The room was spinning as she crossed to the tub and climbed in.   

Weller was under the shower with soap in his eyes, a blurry figure shrouded by steam. He sluiced his head, blinked away the suds, and saw her. He first looked stunned, then confused, then amazed by her arrival.   

"Hey," said Oakley, unaffected by his reaction.  

Weller had some trouble squeaking out her name.   

"Mmm?" said Oakley.  

She heard Weller tell her something in a dull, distorted hum. His voice sounded deeper than usual – and the accent was muddled, too. She couldn't tell how exactly. Something to do with the R's. It sounded like he was telling her off for getting into the shower with him.  

_Since when does he care about that?_   

Oakley leaned against his soft forearm, caught the spray of the water, wonderfully warm on her breasts, and with a smile told him why she needed to be there. Knowing he would understand. A slew of unexpected questions. She tried her best to answer them. Then Weller wanted her to leave. He sounded vaguely angry with her. Weller was always vaguely angry with her for some reason or another. She agreed with him, hoping that would appease him enough to shut him up, and then asked him for the soap. To her surprise, he acquiesced.  

Water flying. Heat on her neck and cheeks, trickling down between her breasts, down her belly to the core of her. She watched it circle the drain with spots in her eyes.  

Weller spoke up.  _"Gerry, please go."_   

His words sounded as though they had been thrown down a long hallway. And his brown hair looked weirdly gray in the steam.   

_"Please_ ** _go_** _,"_ he insisted.  

Oakley felt irritation nip at her. _"_ Mmmalmost done. God. You're always so impatient."  

Weller inhaled loudly and was quiet again. Behind him, Oakley tried to keep her balance. She wound up leaning nose-first against Weller's back. His skin felt softer, and his musk smelled much more like a wolf's musk for some reason. Was it the soap he was using? She rubbed her nose along his shoulder-blades to sniff. No, not the soap. What then? Her head was too fuzzy to pinpoint it.   

The water turned suddenly icy. In response, the same irritation that nipped at Oakley only seconds before bit down hard.  

"Damn English showers. Water never stays hot."  

She reached past Weller, felt him graze her unintentionally, and cranked the faucet up as high as it would go.  

The sting of hot water, searing hot and perfect. Weller, tense, his hand lightning-fast on the faucet knob, the water suddenly gone.   

Weller spun around to glare at Oakley in the silent tub. She had no idea what he was going on about, but from his tone she could tell it was important. At least, that it was important to  _him_  – but just then she couldn't care less about what was important to him.  

Weller was still ranting. Something about it being hard for him? Without warning he bent to hug her, and put his lips on her neck.   

Oakley melted under him. "Aaw, bunny, s'okay. Mmright here."  

She angled in for a kiss. Weller dodged away, red faced and frustrated. He began trying to get her out of the tub.  

_"Gerry, come on, you've washed up now. Let's get you back to bed."_   

Oakley found herself wanting to touch his chest. His flat, masculine chest, covered in tiny, silver hairs. And his belly – rounded with age, adorable in it's own way. She wanted to trace from his belly-button down the trail of curly gray to his cock. Huge and pulsing and sleekly wet.   

Laced with coy mockery – "Oooh, someone's turned on, huh? Well, I guess the wolf outside can wait a little while."  

She reached for him. His cock, swollen and stiff, felt delightfully warm in her hand.   

Weller gasped, and she saw the touch register in his eyes and arousal come into his face.  

"Don't worry. I know what you like, bunny."   

She tightened her grip, slid her fingers along the length of him, twisting ever so slightly.  

Weller moaned, high and tight, a small wolf-howl, and plunged his narrow face back into the crook of her neck.   

Stroking his cock to the erratic rhythm of his heart, feeling his short, shallow breaths puffing against her skin, Oakley wanted to brag. "I'm going to make you cum."  

A low, obscene growl from Weller. "Please."  

Oakley grinned. There was something she loved about taking a man like Weller – a man who was always so damn cold and composed – and making him come undone in front of her.  

Pulling gently, she milked Weller's cock slowly in the cool, moist air behind the curtain. Weller, grunting, bent to her neck again and pushed more fully into her hand. She cupped him on instinct. Hefty, throbbing. She tugged him faster. Felt him getting close. Starting to seize with it.  

Oakley shivered slightly. The smell of him filled her head, and she had the sudden desire to taste him.  

"Want me to suck it, bunny?"  

Weller's mouth left her neck with surprising speed.  _"No!"_   

He swatted her hand away, tried to push by her, cock lifted and straining.    

"Bunny?"  

He went to retreat again and she saw him lose his balance and go toppling out of the tub. Dazed and a little put out, she watched him grab his clothes and sprint out of the bathroom. A phantom shadow, Weller's crazed twin.  

The cloud of steam slowly dissipated, leaving the little bathroom cold and empty. 

* * *

 

_ [Heavy footsteps thudding across the landing. A door slamming shut.   ] _

 

 

Doyle fell to his knees on the floor of his bedroom, fumbling with his cock, his hair a damp disarray. One, two short tugs and he came hot and spurting all over his hand.   

Groaning, shuddering – " _Fuuuuck._ "  

Bright lights behind his eyes. Ringing in his ears, fading quickly, gone too soon. There was nothing in the act of self-release that truly satisfied beyond the physical. After his hips stopped jerking, Doyle felt hollow.  

A few seconds of panting while he gathered himself and his clothes. After he got his trousers back on, he went to collect Oakley from the bathroom. Damp and shirtless, he sat her down on the edge of her bed. She swayed a little, still naked, speaking to him in dove-dull, long-drawn tones about nothing in particular. She still thought he was Charles Weller.  

Doyle dried her hair and her goose-pimpled skin with one of the big, fluffy towels from the linen closet. He tucked her in and draped two blankets over her, just to be safe. And when she asked for a drink, he left and returned with a glass of tap-water from the kitchen. Sitting on the bed, he held it up to her mouth. She drank clumsily, blinked back at him a few times, and looked down at the glass dumbly, as though wondering where it had come from. Then she leaned up on her elbows and kissed him lightly on the lips.   

Soft, pillowy, moist. The pleasant jolt of intimate contact. She tasted like smoke and blood and berry-wine.  

Doyle made a happy, anxious little sound against her mouth, lingering there, turning the kiss from something chaste into something long and languid. Then he remembered himself, pushed her back into the pillow, set the drink glass on the nightstand and stood up to go.  

He made it all the way to the doorway before he heard Oakley call out for him.  

"Wait . . . Where's my hug?"   

Doyle uttered a reluctant sigh, came back to the bed, and wrapped his spindly arms around her in a comforting hug. He felt her smile against his chest. From the window came the soft, calming sound of the waves lapping against the pebbly beach. A few minutes went by. Doyle realized his arms were still wrapped tightly around Oakley. The temptation to kiss her again was very great. He broke the hug and looked away sheepishly.    

"Love you," said Oakley, as her voice trailed away.   

Doyle's chest tightened. For a moment he wondered if she thought she knew she was saying it to him and not Weller. He waited for her to say something else. Elaborate. When she didn't, he said, "I love you, too, Gerry."  

Oakley was asleep by the time he shut the door.  

Back in the sitting room, Doyle turned out the lamps. The springs of the settee squeaked under his weight. Lying back in the dark room, he replayed the shower scene in his head. It was hard to be still and go to sleep when it was there to think about. It was hard to be still on such a bright night.    

He listened and heard it replaying in his head like a nightmare-wet-dream picture show. The shower curtain rustling open and shut again behind him. The momentary draft of cold air. The fast glance over his shoulder and the yelp of alarm he'd had to stifle. The unbelieving shock of seeing Oakley there, standing behind him in the shower, just out of the range of the spray. Her dark hair plastered down over her pale forehead, her naked skin shiny and soft in the steam. Her eyes dull and expressionless like a sleepwalking child.   

The light, perfectly-at-ease little "Hey" of greeting she'd given him when she finally realized she had his attention.        

Doyle pinched his eyes shut in the dark sitting room and took a deep breath. He could almost feel the pulsing shower stream against his head. He could almost feel Oakley leaning against him, faintly smiling, half closing her dark-lidded eyes. Could almost see her shining and nubile, stretching and bending, sliding her small, slick, perfect hands up and down herself as she rinsed and then her head like a dog to send a splatter of hard wet drops pelting across his shoulder.   

She had mumbled something about a wolf outside and given him a faint smile. As if she'd somehow expected him to make sense of whatever it was she talking about.  

He had told her she needed to leave. Had tried to explain how vastly inappropriate it was for her to be there with him. Oakley had simply stared at him. Through him. Past him into space. Doyle had snapped his fingers in front of her nose and she had finally come back to him with a lame "Mwhuh?" And then a feeble request for the soap.  

Somehow, Doyle had willed himself to hand Oakley the bar of soap.  Had willed himself to resist, even as she pushed up against him to get at the water, scrubbing her flat stomach in a sloppy,  uncoordinated way. Had watched her lather her sweet-smelling hair and then reach across him to aim the shower-head so that the jet rinsed the bubbles away in glorious slow motion. The display had been so hypnotizing he had briefly considered letting her stay and finish. But in the end, reason had won him over, and he had again asked her to go. Oakley had answered him in unintelligible murmurs. The resentment building, he'd insisted, and she'd slurred back at him something or other about impatience, and continued to wash despite him.  

On the settee, Doyle took as deep and sobering a breath as he could, and held it. The sent of Oakley's soft skin mingled with the wet soap was still in his nose, stuck there the way a strong perfume sticks to clothes. He exhaled shakily, flinching on the settee. He knew he should stop thinking about it now. But he couldn't. The memory was too fresh and enticing not to be intrusive.  

In the shower Oakley had teetered and wobbled, had pressed her nose awkwardly against his back. And Doyle had felt his cock jump. Had slowly, cautiously, moved a hand down to cup it –  

_Just a quick wank that's all, she'll never know._   

– but at the last second, he'd grabbed the shower-knob instead and twisted it until the water went cold.     

Oakley had spoken up almost immediately. And then ( _oh God and then_ ) she'd reached around him, groping for the faucet, brushing the head of his cock with her wrist. On the settee, Doyle jerked his hips into the memory of Oakley's touch, groaning. The way he'd groaned in the shower. Oakley ( _thank Christ_ ) had failed to notice his arousal. Oblivious, had cranked the faucet-knob back around, and slid back into place behind him. Seconds later, a wave of searing hot water had splashed across Doyle's chest.  

There had been a hiss of surprise, and then roaring fury. Fury enough for him to forget himself. He'd shut off the water with a forceful yank and faced Oakley wet. Without thinking about it, he'd grabbed a hold of both her shoulders, fully intending to toss her out of the tub.  But instead, he'd pulled her to him, Oakley swaying and slumping against his chest, only mildly confused by his actions.   

And he'd told her in a thick growl, "Jesus, can't you see what you're doing to me? Can't you see how much I'm trying not to  _like_  it? I didn't come all the way up here to take advantage of you, but you keep – you just – I'm supposed to be getting tired of you! But how the hell am I meant to – to stop  _fancying you_  when you come in the fucking showerwith me?"   

She'd looked up at him then with her dark, twilight eyes. Nothing of understanding in them. And that's when he'd pulled her to him, pressed his face into the crook of her neck, and sucked and licked at the tender skin there.   

On the settee he choked out a sob, unable to help himself.    

"You – You make it so hard for me," he'd said in the shower. Bringing his mouth to her ear to trail kisses down her jaw and cheek. The words had come out muffled and hoarse against the corner of her wet mouth. "I just want you so much."   

And in response her soft, tender arms had come around him, and she'd called him Bunny and gone to catch his lips with hers.  

Ducking away – "Bunny?" – his voice was a mixture of disappointment and pained frustration. "Did you just call me bunny?"  

Oakley had nodded and relaxed into his arms. Caressed him with a mysterious, impure, indifference that was almost torture for him. Doyle's heart sank again on the settee, remembering it. She had been no more aware and responsive than a dental patient who had just undergone a root-canal.   

Realizing, aghast, he'd implored her to stop, to go back to bed. And Oakley had looked at him, looked  _down_  at him – had seen his growing interest, and pretended to cluck her tongue at him. Had tilted her head and teased him about it, and with feigned-begrudging agreement, offered to get him off.  

Doyle cringed on the settee, remembering how his cock had looked, poking against her smooth stomach. The thin strand of precum stretching between them when he'd pulled away. The mortification he'd felt afterward. But Oakley hadn't minded. On the contrary, she'd reached for him, put a gentle hand on his chest while her free hand dipped down between them and curled around his cock. The touch had been electric and her hand exquisitely warm.  

"Oh  _god_ ," Doyle breathed on the settee.  

When she'd touched him he'd convulsively shoved his face into her neck again. And when she'd started to tug him – "Oh!" – his legs had nearly buckled.   

On the settee, her wispy laugh drifted through his head. "Don't worry. I know what you like."  

She'd squeezed him then, and of course he'd cried out, his face hot against her throat. And she'd carried on tugging him despite the noise he was making. Had cooed her vulgar promise into his ear with genuine enthusiasm. She wanted to – no – she was  _going_  to make him come. And that was when Doyle's mind had contracted to a single sentence, laced with need and out of his mouth before he could stop it.  

"Please."  

Even now he wasn't sure if he'd meant  _please yes_  or  _please stop._  It didn't matter. Hadn't mattered. Never would.   

She'd had him in her hand, and the ache to be touched had been too great to resist. He'd let her twist her fingers down and up his hot flesh. He'd let himself rut against her, helpless and moaning. Shameless in his want. He'd let himself start to shake, his eyes half closed, on the verge of it. Finally.  _Finally_.  

And then Oakley's voice had drifted to his ear again – full of playful eagerness. Asking if she could suck him. Asking if she could suck her Bunny off.  

Doyle's eyes flew open and he tensed on the settee.   

"No!" He said sharply, in the same tone he'd used in the shower just before he'd jerked away from her, cock thrust forward and bobbing like a sideways pendulum.   

He saw himself in his mind's eye. Panicking, painfully aroused, backing up another half step in the tub. The image deeply humiliating as his feet went out from under him and he went sprawling hard over the rim of the tub and onto the bathroom floor. Before Oakley had been able to clear the curtain, he had scrambled to his feet and run out of the bathroom, still dripping and picking up his clothes as he went.  

On the settee Doyle threw his hands over his face and wheezed out a pathetic, cringy sob. Full of embarrassment and remorse.  

_Stop thinking about it now, god damnit_ _!_  

Doyle twisted so that his back was flat on the settee and waited for sleep. All the time his mind was fully alert and ranging far from where he wanted it to be.  

Through a gap in the front window curtain the sky was visible. The rain had stopped and the stars were out. Condensation touched at the corners of the glass.   

Doyle shut his eyes and let the ghost of shower-condensation curl around him like a fog. He felt the whisper of Oakley's lips sliding against his own. Delicious berry wine. His cheeks burned. He thought about what he could have done to her if she'd come into the shower for him instead of Weller. He thought about what they could have done together, if she hadn't been so out of it.   

_Love you she said love you love you love you . . ._   

Doyle sat up with a snarl. He should have been asleep by now. The whole day had been one, long, exhausting trial. He wanted to sleep – but he wanted Oakley more.   

_Love you she said love you –_   

_She didn't say it to me._   

_Love you –_   

_What good is it,_  he asked himself angrily, _to lay here in the dark and think about things you have no control over?_   

The taste of Oakley's lips came to him again. Soft and salty with just the faintest hint of cigarette smoke and the fur underneath it.   

Doyle made a fist with one hand and brought it down like a gavel on his open palm.   

_No more of this foolishness. No bloody more._   

He stood and paced a ring around the room with his fists jammed into his pockets. A hunger was stirring in him. A bone-deep, gnawing need for meat that made sleep impossible. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten all day, save for the few bites of bird Oakley had shared with him during the hunt – days ago it seemed, even though it had only been a few hours before.  

_Can't go to sleep on an empty stomach_ , Doyle reasoned, and stalked into the kitchen to look for food – but there was nothing in the refrigerator or cupboards that appealed to him.  

He stood by the sink for a moment, feeling exasperated and lost. Out the window the clouds had pulled apart over the lake, and the moon was slipping out to light the water. Stunned by the beauty of the scene, Doyle gave up on food and went out to walk his hunger away.  

The air had turned cooler with the passing of the storm. Cool enough for frost. The frozen mud crunched beneath Doyle's shoes as he crossed the lawn and plunged into the deep shadows of the forest. For a moment the darkness was absolute, but then Doyle remembered his wolf's eyes. Flash of reflective yellow in the dark. Rich silver moonlight suffused the trees with an otherworldly glow. Doyle had no trouble seeing the path going forward.   

He wandered for a while with no particular destination in mind, and came to a small hill that opened up to show an endless expanse of pine trees that stretched out before him like a jagged blanket. He inhaled and savored the tangy scent of evergreens. Heard the tiny things that lived in the darkness – the rodents and the night birds – freeze in the shadows around him and then scurry back to their burroughs as he approached.   

The night seemed to embrace him.  

He circled back around again, following his own scent to the lake. There, he stopped in a clearing a few yards away from the pebbled beach, and lay back in the leaves with his hands behind his head to watch the thinning foliage of a maple quiver against the dark sky.  

Some time passed. The night twanged with crickets.    

Before long, the memory of Oakley's hands on him began to arouse him again.   

_Stop it just stop it. God I need to eat._   

Hunger squeezed his belly like a giant's hand. A different kind of hunger squeezed him elsewhere, like Oakley's hand.   

_If I eat I'll feel better. If I eat I'll forget._   

With his eyes reflecting the leaves and the moonlight – holding them in perfect blue – Doyle eased into a sitting position, pulled his shirt open all the way down the front and peeled it from his back. Next, his shoes and socks, the grass like velvet against his bare feet. Finally, his trousers, folded neatly on top of the shirt and shoes.  

Doyle, kissed by the clean night air, put on his pelt, wheeled once around the perimeter of the clearing, and bounded off towards the nearest foreign smell he could detect. Mid-bound he tensed and jammed to a stop. A quiet susurration was audible. The brittle leaves rustling in the wind, and something else behind it. Slowly, Doyle craned his head to the sky, sampling the air, listening. Instinct told him there was meat close-by. He loped on through a dense thicket, moving fast through the scattered branches. Stopped again. Muzzle up, tail stiff behind him. His nostrils dilated as he scented the air.   

_Not just close. Here. Right here._   

Using slow, stealthy movements, he padded into another empty clearing, snorting and sniffing, swinging his head from side to side like a metal-detector. Taking in the smell of wet fur and urine. From the base of a steep hummock he could make out the silhouette of a deer, hazy and small in the drizzly mist. Stalking closer, he saw that it was a stag with three-point antlers.   

_I'll kill it,_  he thought without prompting.  _I'll kill it and eat it and then go to sleep._   

It was decided. Doyle advanced carefully, watching his footing on the undergrowth. From a distance he saw the stag’s ears flick suddenly and it’s head come up. He froze, and saw it’s mild brown eyes sweep across the grass and land on his hiding spot. When the stag’s tail flashed like a white flag in the night, he knew it saw him, that they knew each other as predator and prey.  

The stag crouched to run. Doyle wasted no time. He let out a single, scathing snarl, and shot out of the grass. The stag bolted, galloping headlong into the cover of the nearby trees – Doyle, faster and bolder now for the practice he’d had, sprinting. Directly on it’s heels. The deer had less than a second to react before he lurched forward and sank his teeth into it's quivering flank.   

Slick tear of fur. Warm blood on his lips.  

The stag was pulled down by the force of the attack. It tossed and bucked beneath Doyle on the ground, struggling to rise and shake free of him. At one point it managed to dislodge him and stumble to it’s hooves again. It faced Doyle with it’s head lowered, determined but bloodied, fur tussled by the wind.   

A pang of doubting contemplation –  

_Can I do this?_   

Under the pelt he was a fifty-eight year old Londoner alone in a forest at night. He saw himself clearly, felt the wrinkles of age on his face and the weight of time on his bones.   

_Can I really do this?_   

Deep down he already knew the answer.  

_Yes._   

_Am I really **going**_   _to do this?_   

Doyle bristled at the challenge.  

_Yes._   

The wild excitement from his first two hunts was gone now. Everything was grim seriousness. Life or death. Oakley was not there to chaperone or witness him. His mother was not there to condemn him. He would kill the deer for himself, by himself, and his reward would be meat.  

The stag snorted and bent it's head to charge.  

The brunt of Doyle's savage nature fell on him then –  _Do it. Do it now!_   

Pushing off with his hind paws. One smooth move forward, and Doyle’s world narrowed to the tender neck of the stag and the sharp prongs of it’s antlers. The stag swung it’s head, once – too far to the right. The curve of it's neck was turned toward Doyle. He saw the opportunity, darted in low, careful of the antlers. Got a good hold of it’s throat, silent as death, snapping, pulling down. Doyle tore at the neck of the stag with all the impatience of a wild wolf, teeth bursting the wall of the great vein, and at last he could feel it’s pulse in his mouth, panicky-fast, slowing now, the stag tottering like Oakley had tottered in the shower. Growing weaker. Back legs collapsing in like a folding chair, it’s ears drooping.  

The stag sank back to the ground, kicking limply with it’s front hooves. Digging little trenches in the mud. Doyle loosened his jaws and moved away. A jet of red went squirting into the air. The stag stopped moving.   

Light came down from the moon, through the trees, washing over Doyle’s gray pelt, ghostly pale against the boles of the towering pines. He trotted away from the stag and shook himself. He felt an enormous sense of pride come over him at his accomplishment – warm in him like whiskey-courage, like he could do absolutely anything he chose to, and succeed.   

_I’ll tell her I love her. When she’s awake and sober, I’ll woo her and then I'll tell her that I love her._   

Doyle nodded to himself and pawed at his muzzle. The stag’s blood was already drying to a cake in the cool night air. He went back to the stag and dragged it’s lifeless body with his mouth all the way to the lake, left it on the beach, and waded into the water. His thick pelt kept him warm while he washed.    

When he was clean he staggered over to the untidy pile of clothes sitting a few feet away. His muscles twitched and jerked convulsively. His graceful movements turned awkward. The pelt receded into him, and he shook the ice-stiff curls out of his face. Afterward, he dressed silently and methodically, all the while looking at the stag's open neck. He was glad to feel no backlog of remorse or repulsion from his actions.   

With the stag hoisted over his shoulders like an oversized scarf, Doyle started back to the cabin. 


	15. Chapter 15

**15.**

**SEPTEMBER - Full Moon**

“And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know.” 

― [Jack London](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1240.Jack_London)

 

“We lie best when we lie to ourselves.” 

― [Stephen King](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3389.Stephen_King), [It](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/150259)

 

 

 _[_ _Tuesday, September 9th. Morning.]_  

 _[Oakley waking up. A mattress under her. A cold wet towel wiping her face. She shies from the touch.]_    

 

In Oakley's dreams a deep nasally voice drifted to her – the sound of Scottish congestion. She came awake and heard the birds singing and the leaves rustling, and somewhere further off came the distant croaking of toads. Slowly, her eyes peeled open. For a brief second she wasn't sure where she was. She glanced around and saw the small, unfamiliar room, the adjacent nightstand, the empty glass on it. Then she remembered. They were up north at Spencer Hitsch's cabin. She and Ian Doyle had come up there together to hunt. She had vague memories of Doyle, cradling her head in his lap. Holding her paw. Comforting her.   

He had put her back in her bedroom after –   

 _What? After what?_    

Oakley's disoriented mind fogged the memory over like liquid-paper on a typewriter blot. She decided it wasn't important. With a light yawn, she turned her head to the side and saw Doyle by the window, silhouetted against the sun. It looked like mid afternoon, by the level of the light. 

"Hi, scruff," Oakley said. Her voice was soft and heady with sleep.     

Doyle turned around, yellow-eyed, his cheeks mottled with pink. He was dressed unassumingly, as always, in a snug grey jumper and dress-trousers. His hands toyed with a damp washcloth, twisting it into bunched knots.   

"Welcome back," he said softly, eyes fading to a dull blue. "How are you feeling?"   

Oakley smiled stupidly back at him. “Okay. Little hungover.” 

“How’s your ankle?” 

Gingerly she eased the blankets past her midriff, pushing them down low enough to see her bare hip. She peeked under them. The start of a hefty bruise was forming just above her ankle, where the stitches were, but the swelling had gone down substantially.  

“It’s still there,” she said jokingly.  

A touch sardonic – “Aye. How does it feel?” 

Oakley rolled and flexed her foot under the blankets, testing her ankle’s range of motion. "Feels stiff. What happened last night?” 

Silence. When Oakley looked back up she saw Doyle staring down at her exposed skin, his eyes strangely veiled.  

“Ian?”  

He snapped out of it. “Beg pardon?” 

“What happened last night?” 

Doyle's eyebrows raised fractionally, but the rest of his face remained cooly impassive.  

“What do you remember?” He said in a neutral tone of voice. 

“I remember you giving me some wine. And I remember being in the vet’s office. The vet was going to operate on me. He gave me a shot. After that, nothing.” 

“Really?” Doyle said, letting some surprise slip out. “You mean you don’t remember the waiting room? _After_ the waiting room?” 

She shook her head. “Nope. Total blank.” Realization struck her. She edged closer to him, suddenly filled with a strange, exhilarated suspicion. “Why? What happened?” 

Doyle waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing." 

Oakley got the sense she was being deceived. “What happened, Ian?" 

“Nothing," Doyle said again, with that same, strange neutrality.  

Oakley was sure now that he was hiding something from her.  

"Ian–" 

Doyle overrode her. "I really wouldn’t worry about it, Geraldine.” 

Oakley's eyes narrowed. She examined Doyle's face critically for a moment, searching for some tell-tale sign that he was lying to her. She could see nothing. At last she shrugged.  

"Aw never mind." She would get to the bottom of it eventually. "Thanks for helping me out and everything, scruff. I really appreciate it."  

Doyle nodded and came over to her, leaned down. Something about it struck her as almost-familiar. Coming in close now, his eyes hooded as if he might kiss her. Oakley flinched and felt the palm of Doyle's hand rest across her forehead. He was taking her temperature.  

Relaxing again, she said "So how long was I out for, anyway?"     

Doyle retracted his hand and signed. "Sixteen hours. It's Tuesday afternoon."     

" _What?"_ Horrified, she scrambled to sit up. "Charlie, I have to call Charlie–"     

Doyle took her by the shoulders and forced her back down under the blankets. "Don't worry, I've called him for you."     

"Oh god!" She sounded ready to cry. "Fuck, what did you tell him? You didn't tell him I got hurt, did you?"    

Doyle gave her a sympathetic smile. "I told him we went hiking and you fell. You scraped your leg, that's all. A few stitches, nothing major. He wanted to drive up here and get you–"     

"What? No!"  

Doyle put his hands up defensively. "Don't worry, don't worry. I told him the doctor implicitly said not to move you. _She should remain inactive for at least a week,_ " Doyle said with an overly-dramatic, soap opera inflection. "He couldn't argue with that. He's coming up here Monday to drive you back down to London. As for me, I'll be taking the train back. I've already gone and switched my ticket out for the new date, so there's nothing to worry about."  

Oakley's face crumpled. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."   

"Gerry, it's alright, really."  

"No, you don't get it," blubbered Oakley. She was ashamed to cry in front of him again but unable to help it. "I'm already too dependent on Charlie. If I go home with him he'll turn into an even worse control-freak than he already is. And he'll snap at me for _forcing_ him to pick me up on a school day. That's how he'll see it. As me fucking _forcing_ him to screw up his schedule to come get me."   

"But you're hurt," said Doyle.  

"So? He won't care. You'll see. He'll make me feel guilty about it on the car-ride back. He gets so fucking resentful any time I _inconvenience_ him." She added air-quotes in for emphasis. "Probably threaten not to celebrate my birthday as a god damn punishment."  

Doyle's face darkened. "Gerry, I would hate to think that Charles is the kind of man who would do all of that just because you dared to rely on him for a ride. I would hope he's the kind of man who knows that, when a person is relying on him, they're giving him power over them. I would hope he – I mean, he's got the potential to abuse that power. We all have. But I would hope he doesn't, because he ought to know that abusing that power means you'll lose faith in him. You'll wind up with trust issues. And I can't imagine he wants that."  

"I don't know," Oakley said glumly, sniveling, all cried out. "Sometimes, I think–"  

"He loves you, Gerry." Some small, nebulous irritation in his voice as he said it. "You should have heard him on the phone. He was nothing if not concerned about you."  

"Yeah?" She thought about it. "Well, even if he's not an asshole when he picks me up, he's never going to let me come back _here_ again."     

"Since when are you so cowed by him? He'll stop you if you let him stop you," Doyle told her bluntly.  

Oakley looked at him, really looked, and found a surprising, secret source of strength in his eyes. She remembered her pelt, and her fear subsided.  

"Sorry," she said quietly, the tears drying sticky on her face. "It just gets so overwhelming when it all comes down on me at once, out of the blue like this. Right when I'm trying to have a good time, you know? I could handle it if it were staggered. But this unexpected avalanche _shit_ –"  

"You can handle it no matter how it comes, Gerry. You're incredibly strong, and incredibly brave."  

Oakley's eyes glittered with fresh tears. "Thanks, scruff. You're a good friend."  

Doyle cupped her chin with his soft fingers and used the tip of the washcloth to wipe her cheeks clean. He was slow to take his hand away. She was slow to make him. They sat like that for a minute, comfortably close and happy with the silence in a way that seemed to Oakley almost déjà vu, until some small random thought nagged her back to reality.   

"Oh shit," she said, remembering. "What about work?"  

"Charles said he would phone your supervisor and explain what's happened," Doyle said, finally lowering the washcloth. "They can get by without you this week."   

Oakley doubted that. The people she answered to at Gatwick weren't all that understanding, or helpful. They held efficiency in the highest regard. When they found out her efficiency was compromised – even temporarily – they would see her as less. Helpless, powerless, useless. Less. Oakley knew that people only liked her when she could provide them with something. Some service. As soon as she stopped being able to provide that service, they would drop her. And without her own source of income, she would be at Weller's mercy.  

Doyle's eyes were on her. Twin wells of strength that seemed to fill her with infinite resolve.  

 _He'll stop you if you let him stop you._   

Oakley's pelt bristled under her skin. "Fuck it," she said. "There's other jobs, and I've been in this country long enough to know how to get them. Without anybody's help. If Gatwick wants to drop me, fuck 'em. It's their loss. I don't care anymore."  

"Glad to hear you say that," Doyle said with a smile. "Changing the topic slightly, are you hungry? Dinner will be in an hour. If you want, you can take a shower in the meantime. I washed your dress, and bought you some new ones, too. I hung them up in the closet there, if you wanted to change."     

She was floored by his thoughtfulness. "Jeez, you didn't have to do that."   

"I wanted to," Doyle said gently. "Oh, and I found a cane in Spencer's attic, in case you need it. It's on the floor by the foot of the bed."   

Oakley shifted on the mattress, hoisting herself up on one elbow so that the blankets fell away from her breasts again. If she sat up high enough she could see the head of the cane resting on the floor.  

She smiled at Doyle, put a hand on his knee. "That was real sweet of you, scruff. I appreciate it. Really."       

Doyle blinked, looking lost for a second, and then, with polite speed, retreated from the room. 

Getting out of bed was so much work that Oakley had to sit on the edge of the mattress for a minute and rest. At last she stood up and went to the end of the bed, picked up the cane, and shuffled naked into the bathroom.  

She inspected herself in the cabinet mirror. ( _Been here before, done this before._ ) Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was a wild mess. Her neck and clavicle were peppered with dark bruises. She figured they were syringe bruises, given to her by the veterinarian, and moved over to the tub. 

She showered, careful of the stitches. Looking down at her ankle while the water poured over her head, and knowing dismally that there would a scar.  

 _Oh well. What's one more scar?_  

As she soaped herself ( _familiar,_ _recent_ ) her head started to pulse in a tired, fuzzy way. The buzz of an oncoming shower-epiphany. A great revelation.  

 _File not found. Attempting to recover._  

Soon she felt weirdly unsettled. Like she had forgotten something – something important – and was trying to remember.  

 _What though? What are you forgetting? Not Charlie, not work. What else is there to feel worried about?_  

She massaged her temples absently in time with the rhythmic flicking of the water on her head. Trying to ignore the strange, rising sensation of dread in the pit of her stomach. Images floated into her mind. The bathroom, blurred and tilted like a crooked painting. A man surrounded by steam, on the verge of handsome with wet, silvery curls clinging to his forehead and beads of clean water dripping down his beautiful, bare shoulders. Pale and glistening, his gaze darkly intense.   

Oakley closed her eyes and watched the little dots dance behind her eyelids while the water pelted down.  

 _The sound of running water. Someone in the shower last night._  

She felt suddenly sharp. Panicky. Like she was drowning in an intense wave of bad déjà vu. But that wasn't what it was. Not really. This feeling – this intense, primal _knowing_ – was stronger and more vivid than deja vu. This was her intuition talking to her. Sensing and fretting about something she couldn't quite describe. The feeling was both prophetic, and instinctual. The same, ugly shiver sailors felt whenever tall waves loomed on the ocean horizon. Oakley had no idea _why_ she felt the way she did. She had been fine only minutes before, when Doyle had been with her.  

 _Good old dependable Ian Doyle._  

She remembered floating in his strong arms as he carried her into the veterinarian's. Remembered the smell of him in the rain. In the shower – 

 _Oh._  

Oakley lifted her head in slow bewilderment. Then her eyes grew wide. She gasped. The sound was very loud in the humid bathroom. She remembered a mouth ( _Charlie's? No, Ian's!_ ), hot and wet against her neck. Remembered the heavy weight and smooth skin of Doyle's shaft in her hand. Remembered how he'd fled, stumbling and tripping, from her in the night. Not fragments from some awful dream, but memories ( _absurd, impossible_ ). Memories from the night before.   

Oakley looked rapidly around, her sense of awful premonition rising to a shrill pitch in her mind.  

In a drunken stupor she had crossed the ultimate line, and come on to Ian Doyle. She had betrayed his trust, violated his personal space, and put him in what could have been considered the most awkward situation imaginable. 

“Gerry?” Doyle called up the stairs, almost as if on cue. 

A small, terrified sound escaped Oakley's throat.  

 _Oh Christ does he remember of course he remembers he was sober he's known this whole fucking time and_ ** _that’s_** _why he wouldn't tell you what you did last night_ ** _that’s_** _why he wouldn't tell you –_  

Without thinking Oakley fumbled for the faucet, her mind buzzing like a fire alarm. She turned the water off and in the dripping silence nervously waited for Doyle's voice to come again, feeling a little like Anne Frank in the attic.  

“Gerry? Everything okay up there?” 

“Yes. Fine.” Her voice was steady. Almost. 

“Do you need any help?” 

“No!” _Too shrill. Back it off._ "No, I'm good, thanks." _Just don’t come up here, Ian, don’t see me like this so soon after just stay down there where you belong. "_ I'll be right down, okay?" 

Silence. 

Oakley held her breath. _Please have bought it please have bought it._  

“Okay,” Doyle called up softly, and mercifully retreated. 

Oakley exhaled and scrambled out of the tub. She toweled dry with hectic speed, as if the water might eat through her skin if it stayed there too long. Then a quiet moment while she curbed her emotions. She needed a plan of action. 

 _Okay. Okay, think. What would Charlie d_ _o?_ _Define, analyze, assess the damage. Yes, good._ _What's the situation?_  

She had instigated something with Ian Doyle. 

 _Fair enough. What else?_  

The information, served up fast, was not exactly in order. 

 _You got in the shower with him. He was showering. You put your hands on him. You thought he was Charlie and you put your hands on him. Then he put his hands on you and – no, wait._  

She remembered his pleas for privacy then and felt hot shame come onto her cheeks. 

 _Alright, you put your hands on him, he told you to leave. You didn't. You put your hands on him, then he put his hands on you._  

The argument floated to the surface of her mind like the first bubble in a boiling kettle; _Yes, but_ _not right away._  

Doyle had reacted with a commendable amount of self control at first. Had, from what Oakley could remember, lasted quite a while before he finally gave up and started – 

Her hand leapt to her neck. Soft lips, new bruises. A lean face tucked warm against her throat. It seemed somehow impossible, but with the memory-fog stripped away there was no denying it. Doyle was responsible for the bruises on her neck. She wanted to hate him for it, was on the verge of hating him for it, but she was too aware of the fact that _she_ had prompted his behavior in the first place, and that he had tried his best to resist her.  

 _But he didn't resist you all the way, and he should have_ , her mind tried to protest. _The man kissed you, for Christ sake!_  

 _Well sure he kissed me. He's not made of stone._  

 _But it's his fault you made him kiss you. He brought you up here. He got you drunk. He put you in a situation where you had to get anesthetized. Hell, if he hadn't shown up that day at Edgar Boyd's funeral you'd still be in "I don't miss my pelt" happy-land._  

But Oakley knew that was bullshit. Unhappiness had been creeping up on her for ages, whether she liked to admit it or not.  

 _I could've told Doyle to fuck off in the cemetery the day I met him, but I didn't. I could've told him to fuck off a hundred times since then and I didn't. That was my decision and – and it was my decision to grope him in the shower._  

The realization stung in Oakley's chest. The sting spread over her face and made her eyes burn. Made her cringe with self-disgust. 

"Oh man," she muttered helplessly. "Oooh _man_." 

For the first time in a long time, proud, unflappable Oakley found herself feeling embarrassed. Beyond embarrassed. Absolutely mortified by her own behavior. She didn’t like it. It made her feel weak and childish. Worse than crying in front of Doyle had.  

Doyle's voice again, cutting hotly through her mortification. "Are you sure you're okay up there, Gerry?" 

"Fine." Her eyes were shut. She pictured him standing at the base of the stairs with his hand to his mouth. The mouth that had sucked at her skin only hours before. 

"It's just, you're taking an awfully long time," he was saying. 

Oakley hunted for a response. Some levity – "You sound just like Charlie." 

A beat.  

"I only meant I can come in and help you if you need," called Doyle. 

 _Anxious to get me back in the shower, are we?_  

Firmly – "No, thank you. I'll just be another minute." 

She heard him go away again and considered climbing out one of the bedroom windows in a fast, high school-rendition of escape. 

 _Oh, sure, put your pelt on and go for a stroll why don't you. Fuck a collar, fuck protection. Find your way back to London from fucking Scotland without a map and show up on Charlie's doorstep naked and shivering. Real smart. The fuck is this, Homeward Bound?_  

 _And what about Doyle? You can't just bail out on him after everything he did to take care of you._  

Oakley furrowed her brow in an effort to think more critically. The way she saw it, she had two options. She could bring the events of the previous night up to Doyle when she went downstairs for dinner – apologize formally. Or, she could let it lie. Bury it like a rotten bone and never think about it again. 

She wondered which option would be the most damaging to her relationship with Doyle. 

Obviously, Doyle had chosen to let it lie. But that was probably more for her sake than hers. His intent was to spare her further embarrassment. But what made the most sense for her?  

 _Tell him. Can't build a friendship on dishonesty._  

She sighed, standing now at the fork between two paths.  

"Christ. I never should have come up here." 

Behind her, the tub faucet dripped steadily. She listened to it for a while, desperate not to face the problem at hand. 

Her conscience whispered to her. 

 _Talk to him. Tell him you remember and that you're sorry. He told you about when he touched your leg on the train. Tell him you remember what happened and that you want to put it all behind you._  

Oakley tried to picture herself confronting Doyle. She had no way of knowing how he might react. Would he even _want_ to talk about it? He hadn't seemed all that willing to acknowledge anything so far. Maybe he would deny it. Dismiss it. He might even get offended if she brought it up. After all, it wasn't exactly polite dinner conversation. Then again, he could turn her out, too. Call Charles, tell him to come collect her. The polite but firm equivalent of "Get out of my sight". And how would Weller react to another unexpected schedule change? She imagined Weller, cold and unapologetic in his pragmatism – not something she wanted to deal with. 

 _But you won't have to deal with it_ , Oakley realized. _Doyle hasn't turned you out. Not yet._  

She tried to understand his reasoning.  

 _Why not turn me out?_  

 _Courtesy. He's an old soul. Gentlemanly to the last. Turning me out now would be rude. If he hasn't already then he probably won't. Relax._  

Oakley stood sweating, wondering just how she was going to carry on. 

 _Tell him. Apologize. It wasn't really your fault and he knows that. He'll forgive you and everything will be okay again. Water under the bridge. But you have to apologize first._  

Oakley sighed again, resigned to it now. She struck a hipshot pose for the mirror in a vain attempt to replenish her confidence. But it didn't work. Another heavy sigh.  

Why did everything always wind up so damn complicated? Was it too much to ask for a little simplicity in life? 

 _Apparently._  

Oakley spent a good ten minutes rooting around in the bathroom cabinet trying to find a comb. Subconsciously stalling. When she didn't find a comb, she decided it was too much bother to think about brushing her hair, and left it. Back in the bedroom, standing at the closet, Oakley found six beautiful sundresses made of smooth double gauze and drapey rayon challis. She did not stop to consider the expense of the dresses – though they did _look_ expensive – or what made Doyle buy her such luxurious gifts ( _You know why now, don't you_ ). She simply took one of them – a trim green no-back sundress – off its hanger, pulled it on over her head, and then hobbled into Doyle's room to grab something else. She found going down the stairs challenging, but doable so long as she kept a slow pace. And she did. Purposefully slow. 

Downstairs, there was a good-sized log blazing in the sitting room fireplace. Out the window of the kitchen, the early-evening sun led a trail of red-green fire over the lake. Oakley took in the domesticity of the scene. On the kitchen counter were two brown-paper grocery bags full to bursting with fresh produce, and nearby, Doyle was laying out another place setting on the small kitchen table. He looked happy and homey and almost cute.  

"You're fast with that," he remarked, tipping his head at the cane as Oakley came into the kitchen.   

"It's because I'm impatient," said Oakley in a well-rehearsed tone of nonchalance.  

"Impatient for the food, I presume,” Doyle began, and then stopped. He had seen the expression on her face. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”   

"Nothing's the matter," Oakley said, wishing her voice were stronger. 

"Are you sure?" Doyle pressed.  

She put on a big, fake grin, and tried to affect both enthusiasm and innocence with her answer. The result was a high-pitched half-question that lacked any kind of confidence whatsoever. “Yeeees?" 

Doyle's eyebrows went up in a dubious frown. He made a move towards her. On impulse, coward-like, Oakley recoiled half an inch. Doyle in turn stiffened. Then he relaxed again and gave her some space. 

"How do you like the new dress?" He asked her. 

"Fine, thanks." She felt abruptly self-conscious of how much of her legs were showing in the dress, and what condition they were in. Dry, pale, scratched, stubble on her legs and a scar developing on the ankle.  

"I see you nicked another one of my jumpers to go with it," said Doyle, sounding as if he wished to ease her discomfort.  

Oakley nodded. She had grabbed a thick, blue jumper from the top drawer of his dresser on the way downstairs and now wore it over the sundress. The collar by her recently-washed hair was wet and a little faded.   

"You're not mad, are you?" She asked him.  

"No, I'd rather you were warm. Just try to avoid putting any holes in that one, please." 

Oakley went to reply and had a thought. Wanting to give Doyle the chance to explain, to take the burden of getting it out in the open off of herself, she said "Random question – do you know how I got these hickies on my neck?” 

The question caught Doyle completely off guard. "Sorry? What?"  

"Do you know how I got these hickies on my neck?" Repeated Oakley. She tugged the collar of the jumper down to show him.   

Doyle looked rattled for a moment. "Hickies?" 

"Love bites," Oakley emphasized bluntly. "You know? _Kiss marks._ Do you know how I got them?" 

The slightest hesitation. Could have been a poker-face tell, could have been a simple sentence gap. 

"I haven't the foggiest," said Doyle, fiddling with the cutlery on the table. He seemed eager to end the conversation. "You probably just scratched yourself in your sleep or something."  

Oakley let go of the jumper-collar and brushed her hair over her neck. He wasn't going to say it. He was too polite. She stared at him as hard as she could, willing him to see what was on her mind. When at last he looked at her, she saw a certain implacability in his eyes. He seemed to sense that she knew, or maybe that was just her imagination. Either way, he clearly had no intention of bringing it up for her.  

 _Gonna have to get the ball rolling yourself, champ._   

She rubbed the back of her neck unconsciously and considered waiting until after dinner. But at the same time she knew she would never be able to eat while it was still on her mind. 

She began to plan the form the apology would take. 

 _Dear Mr. Doyle, I am filled with shame and regret over the actions which occurred upon the previous evening. I would like to sincerely apologize for an misconduct and–_  

Too delicate. Try again.  

 _Okay, so, remember how, last night, I totally asked to suck your d–_  

No, too shrewd. How the hell was she even supposed broach a subject like this, anyway? 

 _Yeah so, real quick, I guess you and I committed a minor infidelity last night. Well, not an infidelity, really. I mean, how can it count as infidelity when I thought you were my boyfriend, right? Point is, I'm super sorry I bulldozed all the boundaries you set up – again – and totally molested you in the shower. Still friends?_  

Oakley cupped her hands over her face and groaned. 

"Are you sure you're okay, Gerry?" Asked Doyle. 

Oakley dropped her hands and kept her voice determinedly casual. "Yeah. Absolutely." Then she looked away to spare herself Doyle's attention. Thought, _perhaps a less direct approach_. “Actually, no. I'm not okay, Ian." 

When she looked back up Doyle was gazing at her with expectant concern. 

"I, uh, I want to say I’m sorry about what happened yesterday and, uh, last night,” said Oakley. “You came up for a good time and I . . . Well, I put you in a real awkward position. Been doing that a lot lately, and you’ve been real patient with me. I appreciate that, and I just want to tell you that what happened yesterday – last night – it won’t happen again. Okay?” 

The simplicity of the statement seemed to strike Doyle. “Erm, okay.” 

Oakley wondered if he thought she was referring to the fox-snare. She clasped her hands together hard enough for her knuckles to turn white. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" 

Doyle leaned toward her, looking both eager and apprehensive. “When you hurt yourself?" 

With the sense of falling, she elaborated. "No. Well, yes, but I'm also talking about the, um, shower." 

It took Doyle a minute to recover. "I expect you're feeling . . . violated," he began gruffly. 

"No. You're the one who got violated. You respected me. You didn't, well, I mean you _did_ do a few things but only for a second and then you stopped and got out of there. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that." She struggled to sound calm. "You did everything you could to resist my, uh, well, advances I guess."   

"Drunken advances," Doyle corrected pointedly. "You were drunk, Gerry. And high. The doctor doped you up pretty heavily before he started." 

"Yeah, I'll bet he did," muttered Oakley. "But that's no excuse. For either of us, I mean." 

“I know. I’m sorry. I can set you up with a hotel room in town, if you like. Just let me call you a cab–" 

“You want me to leave?” Her voice filled with a terrible, repentant dread.  

“Well, I only thought – that is, don’t you want to leave, Gerry?” 

“Not unless you want me to.” 

Doyle went to her slowly. Touched her chin with gentle affection and tipped it up so that she would meet his eyes.  

"Gerry," he said. "You were drunk and disoriented. You mistook me for your boyfriend. Do you really think I'd be so depraved as to take advantage of you? Or so callous as to condemn you?" 

Blank astonishment from Oakley. When she found her voice again she said "You – You mean, that's it? You're not going to tell me off or kick me out or something?" 

"Are _you_ going to tell me off or kick me out?" 

"No. Well, I mean, we were both in the wrong. But me more so than you." 

Doyle's fingers slid from her chin. His face took on the expression of a pole-vaulter eyeing the bar and wondering if it was set too high. "I'll tell you what. Let me draw you, in the sitting room, after dinner. Then we'll call it even." 

It took Oakley a second to process the request. Doyle’s bashfulness had by now rooted it's self so deeply in her perception of him she was positive she had misheard him. 

“Sorry – you want me to pose for you, and that’s it?” She repeated, bemused. 

Doyle nodded. 

A further second of disbelief. Then Oakley beamed. "Sure, yeah, I'll pose for you. Absolutely." 

Doyle blinked back at her, all wrinkled forehead and wide eyes, like a child's drawing of a worried owl. Clearly, he hadn't expected her to say yes. 

In her mind – _Now let us never speak of it again._  

Proceeding carefully, Oakley said “So . . . dinner?" 

Doyle slapped the side of his head with his palm. "Right. Yes. I'm a tit. Just a second."  

He left the kitchen, went outside, and retrieved a large drink cooler. Tracking in leaves and dirt through the door with each sturdy step, he carried the cooler into the kitchen. He was pale as paper, but pink in the nose and slightly rosy cheeked from the cold. Beaming proudly, he set the cooler down on the kitchen table with a wet thud, and opened the lid. Packed in ice inside the cooler were two cleaned tenderloins, four meaty ribs, a pair of steaks, and a large roast cut.     

Oakley sniffed at the meat. Her face lit up.  

"Hey, wow. We're having deer for dinner?"  

Doyle nodded. "I killed it Monday night, took it over to the butcher in town this morning."  

"Whoa, wait a minute, back up. _You?_ Killed a _deer_? On your _own_?"  

Doyle flashed her a toothy smile. "That's right."  

"No way."  

"I thought you might say that. Shall I bring in the proof?" He didn't wait for her to answer. He swept back out of the cabin and returned with a heavy bin-liner that smelled of dry blood and fly larva. The plastic of the liner bulged in some places, and tented in others, as though poked out from within. "Here, see for yourself," Doyle said, and set the bin-liner, open, at Oakley's feet.  

A waft of sickly-sweet copper hit Oakley full in the face. She coughed, waved the smell away, and poked the flaps of the bin-liner loose with her cane in order to see inside. Peering blankly up at her was the dull-eyed head of a large, three-point stag. It's fat tongue stuck halfway out of it's mouth like a lame slug, and there were crusts of brown blood matting the fur around it's severed neck.   

Beyond the blood, Oakley could smell some rot starting to set in – Doyle had obviously left the bagged head out in the sun. She bent in closer and took a full deep breath. Doyle's scent came to her from below everything else. The sweat and slaver of his pelt, no more than a day old. He was telling the truth.   

Something feral and deeply feminine inside of Oakley reared its head and yipped its pleasure.   

"You really did kill it," she whispered, open-mouthed. In awe of him.   

A bit cocky – "I did indeed."  

Oakley tried to picture him doing it. Tackling the deer in one, smooth liquid movement. The casual athleticism of the image made her heart flutter slightly.  

"How? How'd you do it?"  

"The way you showed me. More or less."  

"You tracked it?"  

"Yes."  

"And you bit its throat?"  

"Yes. And I ate it's heart, and two of it's ribs while you were asleep."  

Oakley stared at him, surprised and impressed and suddenly very aware of what he was; a male with all the makings of an alpha. She could finally see it on him, in the way he stood and the way he grinned at her. That kind of clarity was disorienting at first. Like she had been stumbling around a dark room for ages, and someone had only just turned on the lights for her.  

Suddenly she didn't mind the idea of Doyle nuzzling her neck quite so much as she first had.  

"Have I done well, teach?" Doyle asked her.  

She was slow to respond. ". . . Yeah. Yeah, real well. A-plus kill.”    

Doyle's smile widened. He sidled up to her.  

"Quite big, isn't it," he said, studying the stag's head.  

Oakley's gaze trailed elsewhere. "Very big.” She was not looking at the stag's head. Her hands twitched with the memory of soap and skin.   

“Too big?” Doyle asked innocently.  

Oakley slowly shook her head. “Just the right size, actually,” she said, eyeing the cross-point of his trousers. The words _available_ and _mate_ floated through her mind.     

“And it's okay that I went and killed it without you?”    

“Huh? Oh. Sure. Why wouldn't it be? You know what you're doing." She frowned as something else occurred to her. "You don't need me anymore."  

Doyle's smile vanished. "What? Oh no, no, I want you to keep teaching me now more than ever."  

"You sure? Seems like you got the hang of it."  

"Yes, but I still want to hunt with you."  

She gave a wry laugh. "Yeah, cause I'm such a star hunter. Hell, I'm out of the game six years, and the second I come back I immediately bench myself like a moron."    

There was bitterness and self-reproach in her voice, but really, she felt more disappointment than anything. She couldn’t understand how she had let herself get so sloppy. Somewhere in her head her father's voice chastised her;    

 _Stepping on a fox snare. That's puppy stuff, kido. Should've looked before you leapt. Especially if you were trying to impress a potent male like –_    

Doyle was talking. "I don't mind about that. Everybody makes mistakes. Even the pros, and you're the, erm, pro-est pro I know. In fact, tomorrow, if you're up for it, you can show me the proper deer-hunting technique. Agreed?"  

Oakley nodded again, at a loss.  

“I bought a book while I was in town," Doyle continued. "Recipes for venison. I thought I might give one of them a go tonight. What do you think?”     

"I think you changed while I was asleep." _I think_ _I_ _changed you._ "That's what I think," Oakley said.  

Doyle's smile reappeared, toothy and brazen.  

"And do you like the new me?" He asked casually.  

Oakley looked him up and down and said "It's not the new you, it's the real you. And yes, I like it. Always . . ." She paused, realizing, then went ahead and said it anyway. "Always have."  

Satisfied, Doyle stooped and snatched up the bin-liner, and carried it back out of the cabin. When he returned, there were faint splashes of blood on his arms and fingers. His eyes glinted in a dangerous, alluring way.    

Oakley shivered. "What did you do with it?"  

"The head? I threw it into the woods. Let the rats and owls have their share, eh?"  

He went to the sink to rinse his hands, and then carried the cooler over to the stove. There was a new air about him, something different in the way he moved around the kitchen – some secret confidence that screamed of strength and cunning and long sweaty nights.  

Oakley liked it.  

 _Always have._   

She watched him place one of the big tenderloins on a frying pan and lay it across the hob on low. Before long, the meat started to sizzle, and the tangy aroma of cooking filled the kitchen.  

Doyle moved between the stove and table with flighty poise, consulting his cookbook and then adding various spices to the meat. Oakley stood back, at the other end of the counter by the sink, and watched him work. She noticed again in a newer, crisper way how trim and elegant his body was. How careful and meticulous his actions were. Sometimes it seemed as though he treated every activity like he was making fine art.   

 _Even hunting_ , thought Oakley.  

Aromatic steam rose from the meat. The kitchen grew warm, and Doyle asked for a glass of tap water. Oakley brought it to him and watched his adams-apple bob as he drank it. Since when did he have such a nice throat?     

 _He thinks_ _you_ _have a nice throat, too_ , her mind provided helpfully.  

“Hungry?” Doyle asked her, sitting down at the table with his cookbook.    

The marks on Oakley's neck seemed to tingle under his jumper. She licked her lips and nodded stupidly.  

“Yeah. Uh, super hungry. Starving, even." She caught the double-meaning in her tone and was quick to correct it. "I mean I haven't had any food for – fuck – how long's it been?"  

"Monday, and most of today," Doyle said, holding up two fingers as he counted, his eyes still on the cookbook. 

The heat from the stove had filled the kitchen, but Oakley refused to take the jumper off. She watched Doyle get up twice more to season the meat. Not long after he sat down again a wave of dizziness made her swivel and hang on to the edge of the sink.     

Doyle looked up anxiously from his cookbook. "What is it?"    

"Nothing," said Oakley, turning around. It was difficult keeping her footing. She swayed for a moment as another wave of dizziness came over her.    

Doyle snapped the cookbook shut and started to stand. Oakley tried to push away from the sink, stumbled, and went down on her knees, still holding the cane, her head bowed.  

Panic-stricken, Doyle bound across the kitchen, took her arm and held her surely around the waist.   

"Careful," he said, lifting her by the waist and ushering her cane-and-all away from the sink.   

His touch was warm and comforting, but not quite the same as it had been upstairs in the bedroom. There was an added electricity to it now, and for the first time in weeks Oakley felt a surge of real desire shoot through her –  

 _Back in the shower. His tongue on you._  

Oakley tried to dismiss it. Doyle was a male, good at hunting, obviously veril. She was a female, young, coming up on her cycle. Her body was just reacting the way nature intended.   

 _Automatic setting. Got nothing to do with you. Don’t read too much into it_ , she told herself.   

As Doyle helped her toward the table his hands brushed her hips – _In the shower, he poked your stomach, remember the length of him?_ – and her legs buckled. Acting fast, Doyle caught her up and carried her to the chair.   

"Nice reflexes, scruff." The words came out smokier than she wanted them to. She couldn't help it.  

She saw Doyle's eyes darken.  

"Ta very much," he huffed.   

She put her arms around his neck, felt the stubble on his chin snag the jumper sleeves. Her hair hung in her face and she liked it that way just fine. She didn’t want him to see her blush when he set her down by the little wood table. Shakily, she took her seat and leaned the cane against the back of the neighboring chair.  

"Sorry," she said when her head stopped spinning. "I don't know what's wrong with me this week."  

"It's my fault," Doyle mumbled, his back to her. It sounded like he was out of breath. More than out of breath. It sounded like his heart was racing. Or was that her heart? "I told you to take a hot shower on an empty stomach," he said. "Shouldn't have done that. We'll get some food in you, and you'll be right as rain again."  

He served dinner five minutes later. Tenderloins, rare, and a side of fried bell-peppers. Simple cuisine with an emphasis on the meat. 

Oakley and Doyle were hungry and they ate steadily for a few minutes. Then Oakley spoke up. 

"I never got a chance to ask you. How'd you like your first hunting lesson?"     

"It was _educational_ ," said Doyle.    

Oakley laughed. "Yeah, well, how about me? Am I good a teacher?"      

"Very, but your last lesson went a bit tits up towards the end, didn't it."      

She rocked her hand from side-to-side. "Trial and error. This week'll probably be a little weird–" 

"Well, yes, you're recovering." 

"–But I'll do better next time we come up."     

Doyle grinned. "I believe it. Shall we work out the details right now?"      

She grinned along with him. "Sure. I vote we go up there once a month from now on. That's one lesson per month. How's that sound to you?"      

"Sounds perfect."      

"Think you'll be able to arrange it with your German friend?"      

"He did say he'd give me a week's worth of Sundays when I first set up the deal. Though he might not admit it now. I may have to bargain with him – by which I mean bribing him with an entire window display – but I don't think it will be a problem in the end."      

"Groovy."  

After dinner, they retired to the sitting room – spotlessly clean and lit by the fire. The dark material of the settee had been cleaned, and re-covered in a bright blue quilt. The floor was freshly polished, and the rug by the fireplace scrubbed and vacuumed. There was no trace of Oakley's blood. Vases of fresh-cut flowers were everywhere.        

Doyle arranged the pillows on the settee with speedy precision. Oakley stood watching him from the doorway, careful to rest most of her weight on the cane. Doyle produced his sketchpad and pen, put his glasses on, and brought a chair in from the kitchen. He set the chair down in front of the settee so he could sit facing Oakley.    

As she eased into place before him in an almost comically languid recline, she started to say “Draw me like one of your–"    

“ _Don’t_ ,” said Doyle.    

She clapped her hands, all business and brass.  "Right, no jokes. This is serious."  

Doyle peered down at his sketchbook through the lenses of his dark-rimmed glasses, and cleared his throat. "Are you comfortable?"  

"I guess so. Is this how you want me?"  

"Well, maybe something a bit more glamorous. If you're willing."  

She couldn't help the look of uncertainty that flashed across her face. Then, in blatant overcompensation, she turned and struck a pose for him with an arch smile, her hand at the back of her neck, displaying her supple kiss-covered throat – _The throat that he can probably still taste_. The effect was no less dazzling or discomfiting than if had she been laying there in full red-carpet regalia.   

"Brilliant, but would you, erm –" He wiggled his fingers in the general direction of her lower half, and she uncrossed her long, slender legs for him. "Umm, good, good, but if you'll allow me to just –" A mild touch of his hand on her thigh. His skin felt smooth and soft. "Is this okay? For your ankle, I mean."  

She nodded. Shivered slightly under his hand.   

"Cold?" Doyle asked her.  

She shook her head.  

He pressed down on her thigh and she heard her breathing hitch.   

"Pain?"  

"No. You gonna get started or what?" Oakley said, a little impatiently. Feeling oddly flustered.  

"Of course."  

The pen strokes were jagged at first, but grew neater as the trembling in Doyle's hands subsided. A long pause of quiet while he worked. Oakley made up the time by babbling.    

"So . . . A wild deer, huh. The epitome of nature, the embodiment of that isolated wilderness that no man can ever hope to master," she said loftily, in a faux-Attenborough voice.  

"Aye, that's right," said Doyle distractedly.    

"You ever touch a wild deer before Monday night, scruff?" Asked Oakley.  

He told her that he had, once. In a petting-zoo. He had touched a doe that had been bred in captivity and spent the whole of it's life greedily nibbling pellets out of pudgy little school-child hands. And before that, when he was still in Glasgow, he had seen a handful of half-tame bucks go trotting through his backyard, looking for rubbish bins to tip over.    

But he had never seen a _wild_ deer, let alone touched one, before.   

"Well sure," said Oakley. "For a guy to touch a wild deer the deer's gotta be dead. Either that, or the guy's gotta be wild, too."   

Doyle gave a fascinated little hum, not really paying attention to what she was saying. It was if he was too taken by the sight of her to talk. Or maybe that was just his "drawing" face. Oakley couldn't be sure. The expression looked somehow more intense than when she had watched him drawing in the train station and the restaurant. She saw his eyes roam over her, down her hips, and focus sharply on the fresh, angry scar just above her pale ankle. He leaned forward, and for a fast second he looked as though he might run a gentle finger across the wound. Pet the mark away.  

 _Or lick it clean?_     

Doyle stayed that way for a short while, with his attention on the scar. Then his eyes returned to the sketchpad. Oakley watched as his right index finger hovered diligently over the page and then touched down at the inky shadow between Oakley's legs to rub the cross-hatches together until the darkness bled into a single, black void. The ink left a smudge on Doyle's fingertip. He wet the smudge with his tongue, wiped it off on his trouser-leg, watched Oakley's smudged black gaze for nearly a minute before he realized he was wrinkling the page. When he looked back up his eyes locked on Oakley's, and Oakley saw the feral gold appear briefly in them, dark and hungry in the flickering firelight. Her breath grew hot in her throat. She watched Doyle set the drawing pad on his lap and fiddle with the pen. Twirling it, tossing it, accidentally dropping it and bending fast to pick it back up. He let it roll to the crevice of the pages and opened his mouth to say something.  

For whatever reason, Oakley felt the need to brace herself.  

“Gerry?” 

“Yes?” 

A pause. 

“Never mind,” said Doyle, standing up.  

“Where do you think you're going?" 

"Bed," said Doyle with a deliberate yawn. He looked anything but tired.      

"What about the picture?” Oakley questioned, a feeling of anticlimax in her chest. “It's not done yet.”    

"Can't force it." He began to walk away. "Unfortunately."       

Oakley sat up stiffly on the settee. "Wait. Don't go."  

Doyle froze mid-stride. 

"You were going to ask me for something, weren’t you. Just now. I'm right, aren’t I?"  

Silence in the blazing room. 

“I don't want things to get weird between us all of a sudden, okay?”  

More silence. 

“Just tell me what you want. Please."  

 

* * *

 

 _[Geraldine Oakley has just asked Ian Doyle to tell her what he wants. Right now he wants a variety of things, none of them in the realm of "appropriate". He does his best to improvise.]_  

 

Doyle squared his shoulders and affected an air of polite indifference. “I was thinking about your birthday, that’s all. We’ll have to celebrate it here and–" 

“Bullshit. Tell me what you were really thinking about.” 

For the first time since killing the stag, frustration flared in Doyle. He spun around. “I was thinking about last night. Okay? I was thinking . . .” He wilted slightly where he stood. “I don’t know. I just want you to feel comfortable around me, Geraldine.”  

“I want that too, Ian. I want us both to be comfortable with each other.”  

And then a smile crept slowly onto Oakley’s face. There was an endearing bashfulness to it that Doyle would have never before associated with her. After a moment she stood up, peeled off the dress and jumper, shook her shower-bedraggled hair just as a dog would, and stretched her long bare arms out to him.  

“What are you doing?” Doyle asked her in a startled voice. 

"Me and my brothers used to sleep in a big pile in the family room when we were young. Did I ever tell you that? It was warm and toasty when we had our pelts on. I always felt so safe. And comfortable.” 

It took Doyle a second to process the meaning behind what she's said. Slowly, hesitantly, “Oh. _Oh._ Oh my. Erm, are you – do you mean to suggest that we should –” 

“Lay together? Yeah, I do. Aw, don’t give me that look. Wolves lay together all the time when it's cold out.” 

“It _isn’t_ cold out.” 

“No, but we can pretend like it is.” 

“I think that might be a bad idea, what with everything that's, erm, happened recently.”  

“Aw, relax. It’ll be fine. Better than fine. It'll be good for both of us. What do you say?”  

He heard a touch of fear in her insistence, and couldn't tell if she really wanted him to, or if she was just pressing it to ensure he would refuse. He decided to test her.  

Calling up some of his signature diffidence, he asked “What would Charles say?” 

Oakley crossed her arms over her breasts in a stern, annoyed stance. “Is Charles a wolf?” 

“No.” 

“Then he doesn’t get a say.” 

“But aren’t you worried I’ll try to – to –” 

“Touch me?” A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of embarrassment came over her face as she said it. “No. I’m not worried you’ll try to touch me. Are _you_ worried I’ll try to touch _you_?” 

“No.” 

“Then we understand each other. Besides, you told me you wanted us to feel comfortable with each other, and this is a good way to reach that goal fast.”    

Before he could argue she put her pelt on, and then she was muttering in wolf-speak again – her beautiful theremin-language. Through gesture alone, she evoked a voice. “I’ll keep my pelt on the whole time. I promise.” 

Doyle was tempted, but anxious. If he went to bed with her he might accidentally blurt it out ( _I love you!_ ), and then what? He pictured a tadpole trying to hop out of the water before it's legs had formed, and thought _Not ready yet_. His plan was a delicate one. He had to take things as slowly as possible. If he rushed his confession, he could scare Oakley away.  

"I . . . no, I can't. I shouldn't," said Doyle, pushing as much reluctance into his voice as he could. Oakley gave him a pained look and he acquiesced despite himself. “All right, all right, but _only_ in our pelts. Understood?”    

It was slightly easier to keep his hands from roaming (or his heart from shouting) when they were wolves, anyway. Though not by much.     

Oakley snarled happily at him, and he followed her up the stairs, putting on his own pelt while she wasn't looking at him, smiling just as brightly as if he were following Oakley the woman to bed instead of Oakley the wolf. He continued to smile even as he crawled under the covers with her and took her robust, furry body gently into his arms.  

 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Wednesday, September 10th. Dawn.]_  

 _[_ _Oakley dreams of the ocean. An endless, black ocean scattered by silvery specks of cold, high moonlight. She sees the glitter in the water and hears the sound of waves crashing. A ways away, where water meets beach, she spots the emerging crest of a single, great rock – immense, angular, the most unnatural shade of blood red she has ever laid eyes on. It peaks out from below the rise of the tide, but only the first few inches._  

 _This is Oakley’s aging dream. It comes every night of the week leading up to her birthday, as it does for all she-wolves who have entered their cycle, and it is as familiar to her as her meneses._  

 _Oakley’s tide comes and goes; the red rock stays. At first Oakley can’t see it, not all of it anyway, and she won’t be able to for several days. But without the red rock, there is no tide – though, the red rock isn’t actually tidal. Oakley’s lust only appears to come and go. Her lust is like the rock, sometimes covered and sometimes visible, but always there, waiting to return and remind her of her primal, animal duty._  

 _Find a male._  

 _Mate._  

 _Reproduce._  

 _Eventually, the dream ends, and_ _morning comes slowly to the cabin. The blackness of the bedroom lightens imperceptibly through the shades of gray, and at last a finger of sunlight jabs through a gap in the curtains. Oakley_ _has become a woman again some time in the night. She_ _lays wakeful for a long time waiting for the man asleep next to her to stir._ _]_  

 

Doyle's pelt was gone, and he had an erection. Oakley could feel its stiffness pressing against the curve of her bottom when she came to. For a steep second her blood hummed. Then she told herself it was a normal, natural byproduct of their closeness in the undersized bed. No offense meant, no harm done, and certainly nothing worth dwelling on.  

She quickly rolled away and slid out of the bed. 

In the bathroom she condensed her usual morning routine to a quick gargle with mouthwash and a moment or two spent fussing with her hair in the mirror. When she came back to the bedroom Doyle was just starting to stir. She did her best not to look at him as she crossed to the closet. She selected a dress, threw it on – 

"That looks lovely on you, Gerry."  

She spun, saw Doyle's pale face looking at her in the early-morning light, his cheeks puffed lightly with sleep. His hands were resting behind his head and a lazy little smile was playing on his lips.  

"Morning scruff. How'd you sleep?" 

"Wonderfully, thanks. And you?" 

"Pretty good. You like laying with another wolf?" 

"Quite a bit, actually."  

Oakley glanced down. No hint of him tenting the sheets. An image bloomed in her head before she could stop it; Doyle bent over, fisting himself slowly while she showered. The thought made her mouth go inexplicably dry.  

"Gerry?" 

She sniffed once, discretely, for the scent of cum but couldn't smell anything. 

Doyle frowned at her from the bed. "Gerry? Are you okay?" 

She swallowed, said "Yeah, fine," and hurried back out of the room. 

Doyle got up shortly after and made them a breakfast of ham-and-cheese omelets, hot muffins and rich herbal tea. When they were finished eating, they walked into town, arm in arm, and browsed the local wears. Oakley did not need the cane, but she went slowly, limping every other step. 

At noon they stood on the high street, out of the foot traffic streaming toward the pub, rummaging through a tent of second-hand clothes. There, Doyle held jumpers up for Oakley to inspect. She gave him either a thumbs-up, or a thumbs-down depending on what he picked. 

A little after one, they returned to the cabin for a brief hunt. 

From the cabin doorway Oakley watched the muscles in Doyle’s back ripple and arch as he put on his pelt. To her astonishment, he was no longer concerned with maintaining privacy between them. The sight of him so carefree in his pelt excited in her the same, boisterous feelings of kinship and fondness for her own kind that it had on their previous hunts – but now there was something added. The potent revival of an unidentified hunger, some yearning emptiness that clamored to be filled. 

Not interested in self-analysis, Oakley gave it little thought and ran (in a kind of uneven hobble) with Doyle through the fields by the cabin, into the unilluminated afternoon.   

Together they swatted field mice and startled birds in the long grass. They spoke to one another in their native, animal tongue. Doyle – who had made a point of practicing his wolf-speak while Oakley had slept on Monday – could say volumes now simply by applying a fresh facial expression, or adjusting his posture. He had learned to effect poetry with his tail and eyes alone, and his practiced grunts and growls held a lyrical quality that Oakley found utterly mollifying. When she went to give him a congratulatory lick on the nose –"For being such a good student,"– he only offered token resistance. In fact, she could detect no apprehension in him whatsoever when it came to touching or killing. For the first time since their hunting sessions began, Doyle seemed to be as genuinely dangerous and invested in the hunt as she was. A rouge rabbit was enough to set him off on an arduous chase through the meadows. But as the day stretched on, he began to choose his targets with more tapered precision. Capable and composed, he killed three pheasants and a grouse (the last a team effort that required the both of them), and when he was satisfied, his excellent sense of direction brought them back to the cabin in record time.  

As they changed back into their clothes by the tree, Oakley again drank in his hairy chest, his strong, thin arms, the heavy-looking bulge between his legs, and felt the same exciting, and slightly distressing, biological _pull_ that had been there earlier that morning. 

Afterward, they sat on the porch, lingering over mugs of hot chocolate, eating crisps and biscuits from the corner store, talking about nothing and everything.  

Oakley, on the steps in the cool, late-September sunshine, looked down the lakeshore with her head on her knees, her face pink and splotchy from the cold. Next to her, Doyle spoke excitedly about Picasso, his spindly fingers wriggling like the legs of a spider. At one point he left her to sit by herself while he fixed them a more solid lunch, only to come back and find her luminously watching the clouds gather from behind the clamp of his large black sunglasses – a cigarette already dangling from the corner of her mouth. 

Inexplicably, as if making a note in the afternoon air between them; "Where did you find those?"  

"Jacket pocket," Oakley replied. 

"You cheeky little thief." 

Oakley lifted and dropped the glasses in place on the bridge of her nose and turned back to the lake.  

Silence.  

She felt a light touch against her hair and swatted at it on instinct. "Wha—"     

Doyle, bent over her, smiled and pulled his hand back. "Relax, you can keep the glasses. It's only that you had a fly in your hair.” 

Sure enough, a small fly buzzed helplessly between Doyle’s pinched fingernails.  

Oakley stared at him. He had groomed her – and she hadn't even asked him to _._ She felt her face grow hot. It was a confusing reaction. She kept her eyes trained on the lake for the rest of the afternoon. 

That evening they enjoyed a calm dinner full of light small-talk and averted glances that left Oakley looking surprisingly flushed. Then, a mellow sunset on the porch, soft and dreamy as a puff of perfume. And afterward – 

"Games?" said Oakley, nodding at the cardboard box Doyle had carried into the sitting room. 

"Bought them yesterday while you were asleep," Doyle said happily as he set the box down on the floor in front of her. Its contents included a deck of playing cards and several well known board games. They settled on Trivial Pursuit. Oakley didn't resort to cheating until the end of the third round. There was no ridicule from Doyle when he caught her. Only charismatic amusement. "I didn't take you for the cheating type," he chuckled with a wag of his eyebrows. 

"I wasn't cheating. I was playing inventively."  

"Hmm. I wonder what Charles would have to say about that." 

"Shut up," Oakley said amicably.  

Doyle gave her a slow lurid grin, and her heart rate spiked. As they cleared up the game, she placed her hand on Doyle's arm half-flirtatiously, not sure if she was testing him, or herself. She supposed she was expecting – _hoping –_ to bring out that same, intimidated reaction she always got from Doyle. Re-balance the dynamic a little. But something had changed between them.  

Doyle looked briefly at her hand on his arm, and then directly back at her. The playful half-smile and the spark in his eyes said the things his words did not. Startled, Oakley quickly withdrew her hand and said "Um, I'll be outside. Need a cigarette." 

She spent the next twenty minutes swallowing smoke and telling herself she had imagined it. Her libido had obviously resurfaced, as it did every year around her birthday, and it's insatiable intensity was putting unsettling thoughts into her head. Making her see things that weren't there.  

By the time she lit her second cigarette, she was calm again. 

Later, Doyle invited her back into the cabin for a follow-up drawing session. She lay on the settee – barefoot, one hand playing forgetfully with her hair – as he drew her. He moved the pen in a shy, delicate way across the paper, taking special care to make Oakley's face look mutable and unstressed, and her body more slender than buxom and fleshy. Oakley watched him from the settee, unexpectedly entranced by the way the glow of the fire highlighted the strong lines of his collarbone and the bend of his delicate neck. He was on the verge of looking handsome when he developed a writer's cramp. 

She watched him put his pen down and flex his hand.  

“Bedtime, I think.”  

Oakley frowned at him. “Do we have to?” Part of her wanted to go on watching him draw. 

“You can stay up, if you like," Doyle said as he stood and stretched. "You’re young. You can handle it." 

"No, you're right. Bed's a good idea. I need to shut my brain off for a while." 

"Would you like to lay with me again?" 

"Umm." 

"We don't have to, certainly. In fact, yes, probably better if we don't. Good call." 

As they made their way out of the sitting room Oakley stopped to close the curtains. Through the window she could see the dark sky. The moon would be full in a few days. She was determined not to think about how it was affecting her, just as she was determined not to think about how attractive she had found Ian Doyle a few seconds ago. 

Dwelling on thoughts like that would make it impossible for her to fall asleep. 

 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Wednesday, September 10th. Night.]_  

 _[They bed down in their separate rooms this time. An hour passes. As Doyle is dozing off, he hears Oakley call his name and jolts back awake._ _]_     

 

Down the hall in a rush of harried steps. From the doorway of Oakley's dark room Doyle could see the glow of her cigarette, like a tiny red eye, winking out at him. 

"You called?" He asked with a husky yawn.    

"Yeah, I can't sleep,” said Oakley.    

Doyle flicked on the light and saw her sitting up in bed with the cigarette in her hand, her bare breasts exposed, the rest of her covered in a small pile of cozy blankets. She blew a few small smoke rings in his direction. 

Doyle's breath caught and she jumped into the pause. 

"I can do animals, too. See?" She blew a single long puff of wispy smoke out of her mouth, pointed to it, and said "That's a snake. I can do a mean slug, too."    

Doyle laughed and came over to her. "What's keeping you up?" 

Oakley looked at him with smoke-reddened eyes. "The moon. What else." 

"Anything I can do?" 

Oakley's face took on an unwilling, mask-like quality. Doyle sensed he had somehow asked the wrong question. He tried again. 

"Would you like it if I read to you some more? I still need to finish _Alice_ , don't I." 

Oakley gave a short, chopping laugh and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed. "Sure. Read me _Alice._ I could use a distraction." 

When Doyle returned with the book he found Oakley completely uncovered. She had kicked the blankets into a scrunched pile at the end of the bed and now sat with her slender legs curled up to her chest in an easy recline. 

Doyle swallowed back his excitement and cooly asked her to bring her pelt out.  

"Like last time?" 

"If you wouldn't mind." 

"What about you?" 

In the corner the window was still open and the bedroom was cool. The sound of evening crickets and rushing water echoed in the distance. Doyle faced the bedroom mirror deliberately when he changed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Oakley steal a peek at him in the glass, and felt immensely pleased with himself. 

They wound up laying in the bed together, Doyle’s head propped on a pillow against the wall, _Alice_ open on his bristled stomach, Oakley beside him in her pelt with her furry head resting on his chest. Every now and again, as he rambled on about Alice's strange adventure, he flailed one of his paws in a dainty, conversational way. At one point he pushed his voice deeper, the lowest register he could manage, hoping to titillate Oakley a little. 

He thought he saw her blush beneath the fur. But then she said “You sound stuffed up. You getting sick, scruff?” 

Doyle frowned and went back to his normal register.  

Just before Oakley drifted off to sleep she admitted, in a mumbly, dreamy voice, that the thing she loved most about watching him read was how he always licked his thumb before he turned to the next page.  

 _I love you she said I love you._  

 _Steady on._  

Oakley's eyes were shut now, and she was snoring – lightly. The wheezy pant of a sleeping dog. Doyle eyed the doorway for a moment, trying to decide if he should go back to his own room or stay with her.  

 _No contest._  

Doyle shut the book with a quiet thwap, sat up without disturbing Oakley, grabbed the quilt off the end of the bed with his paw, and draped it over them both. Then he flicked off the light and settled back down against her. 

Holding her while he fell asleep made his knees weak and his head feel light, and he loved every phenomenal, disorienting moment of it. He had to resist the urge to pull her those few inches closer and press her mouth against his when he woke in the morning.  

 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Thursday, September 11th. Noon.]_  

 _[_ _Dark spruce forest filled with a scattering of bird calls and the hunting-cries of wolves._ _Running now at the forefront of their two-paw pack is Ian Doyle, large, gray, sagely silent in his canine swiftness. He directs the course of Geraldine Oakley, close on his heels as he drops alongside the narrow brook that leads toward the lake._  

 _They run together, side by side, past log hollows and patches of brier._  

 _At the edge of the forest Doyle sniffs noses with Oakley, plays with her, croons for her in wolf-speak. And in return she leaps about and frisks and plays with him._ _If she could see herself from the outside, she would see a wolf behaving in all the foolish, puppyish ways of fresh love. And she would remember how_ _the tide was noticeably lower in last night's dream, how the first quarter of the red rock loomed above the receding ocean, dripping, ominous, h_ _ow it’s shadow fell over the beach like a subtle threat._  

 _Find a male._  

 _Mate._  

 _Reproduce_ _._ _]_  

 

By mid-day the wire scar around Oakley's ankle had almost fully healed over. Sometimes it itched, but it never hurt or ached, as it might have done for an ordinary woman. When Oakley was in her pelt, the scar was faded to the point of invisibility. On the hunt she sped along, no longer inhibited by a limp. 

Halfway around the lake she spotted a nice plump rabbit – perfect for a pre-lunch snack. But before she had a chance to spring, Doyle snapped it up. She stared at his red, sticky mouth – smeared with blood, so savage and wild – and was surprised to catch her tongue edging out between her teeth hungrily.  

Later, when she'd had a chance to examine her thoughts and could better articulate them, she said "You need to stop being so impressive, scruff. It's seriously throwing me off."  

Looking back at her with his cool, lupine eyes, Doyle licked a floret of pulpy blood off the end of his claw and hummed his satisfaction.   

Oakley felt an inexplicable chill go down her spine. 

At three o'clock the air turned sticky and hot, and they had their lunch on the shady porch again. Doyle lounged against the railing, gazing calmly out at the rolling lake water. Seated beside him on the porch steps, Oakley spoke earnestly about wolf fishing techniques, her hands moving in the warm summer air. At one point Doyle reached into his pocket and produce an orange. The citrusy smell came to Oakley in strong, sudden wafts as he peeled it.  

"Hey, where did you get that?" She asked him. 

"Kitchen," said Doyle. 

"Since when do we have oranges?" 

"Since I went to town on Monday. Didn't you smell them?" 

"No."  

"That's unlike you. Well, at any rate, they're in the cupboard if you want one." 

"Aw, I have to get up?" 

"Not necessarily."  

He offered her a slice from his orange. She went to take it and he drew back, making as if to toss it at her.  

"Ah-ah," he said playfully. "Open." 

Again Oakley felt a blush mount in her cheeks. She opened her mouth for him. 

"Good girl," Doyle said affectionately, and tossed the small, wet slice of orange into the air. She rose up and caught it with her teeth. Doyle clapped at her. "Ah, now who's the impressive one?" 

Oakley felt a tiny twinge of pleasure surface between her legs, followed by an uncomfortable pang of embarrassment. She considered spitting the half-chewed orange slice out and throwing it at Doyle, but it tasted too good, so she settled for raising her middle finger instead. Doyle only laughed at her. 

"Fine, if you're going to be that way, no more slices for you," he said. 

She looked at him coldly – or tried to. Her anger was already melting away.  

A few hours later, during dinner, their legs brushed under the table. Again Oakley felt that tiny twinge of pleasure spark from between her legs. A kind of emptiness, barely there, like screams down the hallway of a madhouse. Loud enough to notice, quiet enough to ignore. 

 _Need to be filled. Something in me. Sliding, pumping._  

She rubbed her thighs together to alleviate the echoing throb, but it didn't diminish entirely. Throughout the rest of the meal she was plagued by a strange sensation of butterflies in her stomach. 

When dinner was over she checked her phone for the first time since Sunday. The volume of missed calls and texts she had received from Charles Weller made her instantly regret it. She found had little desire to speak with Weller, even though she knew hearing his voice might provide some relief.  

She imagined what she might say to him if he was to call right then.  

 _Hey, bunny, I miss you. I'm horrny as hell. I wish you were here so I could sit on your face._  

Oakley squeezed her phone angrily. She could try to call Weller, but she knew that if she did he would lay into her about her ankle, and there would be plenty of time to endure that on the car ride back to London. Better to just wait it out.   

She sent Weller a single text – 

 _Hey, bunny, hope ur ok, feeling much better now, love u and miss you can’t wait to see u Sunday! –GO_  

–and then turned her phone off and went into the sitting room for her nightly portrait. 

Doyle stood tall and lean by the fireplace, staring into the popping flames. Oakley drew toward him. He tilted his head and looked back over his right shoulder. The firelight, gleaming gold on his skin, made his blue eyes shimmer intensely. Oakley felt another rush of heat at the sight of him, but this one was different. She sensed – or thought she sensed, in an “Am I on top of things or is the moon just making me paranoid” kind of way – that something was growing in Doyle. An intimate tendril creeping from one of his darker areas, nursed on the feeling that he had discovered something about her. Or about himself. 

“Geraldine, I have a question for you.” 

His voice was like gravel. 

“Uh, okay. Shoot." 

“What’s your favorite song?” He asked her, though it sounded more like he was asking her where the Holy Grail might be hidden. 

Oakley swallowed hard, suddenly uncertain. “Well, I guess . . . I always really liked _Free Falling_ by Tom Petty." 

Flat disappointment. “Ah. Damn. Okay. New question. What’s your favorite David Bowie song?” 

“Why?” 

“Please, just tell me, Gerry.” 

“Oh, man, I don’t know. You’re the Bowie fan around here, not me.” 

“Gerry–" 

“Alright, alright. Ummmm. I don’t know. That bubble song from _Labyrinth_ , I guess.” 

Doyle gave her a baffled look. “The _bubble song_ from _Labyrinth_?” 

“Yeah, you know. The one where he’s got her in the bubble and they’re dancing and everyone’s wearing masks and stuff?” 

“You mean, _As The World Falls Down_?” 

She wagged her finger at him like he’d won a carnival prize. “Yeah, that’s the one.” 

His face lit up. “Brilliant. That’s brilliant.” 

He started to move away from the fireplace.  

Oakley took a step back on instinct. “Why’s that brilliant? How come you wanted t–” 

“No reason.” He was edging toward the staircase in an excited, almost frenzied way. “Be bright back.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere. You just sit there –" He flapped his hand at the settee, "–and wait." 

“But what am I waiting f–"  

Doyle was already gone. Oakley plopped down on the settee with a sigh, and waited. Less than a minute later, Doyle returned carrying a strip of cloth, held out for her to see. 

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that?” 

“A surprise.” 

He approached her, holding the strip of cloth between both hands, stretched out like a –  

 _Nope_. 

She ducked out from under his arms just as he reached her. “Um, no. I don’t do blindfolds.” 

“You do this time.” 

“I don’t–" 

“Please?” Now his voice was low. Almost a purr. “Otherwise it’ll spoil the surprise." 

Oakley stifled a reluctant groan. “Okay. Fine. But this had better be a damn good surprise, scruff.” 

“Oh, it is.” 

And before she knew it, he was kneeling in front of the settee, in front of _her_ , one hand awkwardly fastening the blindfold round her eyes. It took her a minute to adjust to the darkness and the feel of black satin on her face.  

"Ian?" 

He was up, doing something. She listened as his footsteps faded out of the room and up the stairs. Sounds from above, creak of a closet door opening. Oakley shifted so that she was sitting cross-legged on the settee. The footsteps again, trotting heavily above her, now hurriedly back down the stairs. She pictured little-boy-Doyle, stringbeany and tow-headed, bouncing impatiently down the imaginary staircase of his childhood home at Christmas time. She caught the sound of thin, hollow wood clunking along in time with his footsteps, accompanied by a faint, echoed twang.  

Doyle came into the room picking at a Martin six-string acoustic guitar. He was playing the riff from _Labyrinth,_ as requested.  

Oakley twisted her head toward the sound, realized what was happening, and slapped her knee with an impressed cackle. “Ha! Well I’ll be damned. My very own, personal mariachi band. The hell you get that thing, anyway?”   

"Second hand shop," Doyle sang proudly in an over-the-top, operatic voice.  

Oakley went to laugh again and then Doyle switched over to the song-lyrics. She gasped. His real singing voice was rough, warbly, beautiful. It was almost like he was trying to imitate Bowie’s infamous baritone. Oakley bit her lip. He was serenading her with this new and wonderful voice, this buttery howl that was smooth and gentle and delicious. She thought back to the polaroids she had found in his apartment, young Ian Doyle looking lanky and young with the guitar at his hip. She pictured that Doyle, a softer version of Doyle – someone who sounded more capable of being happy – singing to her, and was suddenly glad for the blindfold. However foolish she thought it must look, the cloth shielded her from the sight of Ian Doyle’s rockstar persona – a thing she had seen once before knew would drive her fragile little hormone-addled psyche strait to the looney bin.    

Doyle kept singing. She sensed that he had come very close. She could hear the rustle of the guitar strap on his shirt and the sound of his breathing, louder than usual, almost panting, and she could smell polished wood and his cologne, and then his breath, suddenly warm on her face. She felt him brush a kiss on the end of her nose and withdraw. Desire ballooned in her. She twisted her face away from him. 

“Why are you doing this, Ian?"  

She thought she usually had a pretty good idea of what was going through his head, but this time –  

The strumming stopped and in the sudden silence Doyle’s words held a surprising weight. “You were having a bad day. I thought this might help you.” 

Oakley's throat constricted. She sniffed and said “So, what? Sing the bitch to sleep? Is that it?” 

“Sort of. Is it helping?” 

Her voice was cracked. “Yeah. It is.” 

She felt like she could melt into the settee.  

“I can take the blindfold off if you'd li–” 

“No,” she said quickly, and clapped both hands over the blindfold. “No, it’s okay. I like it like this. Helps me focus on – on just the music.” 

“Fair enough,” said Doyle.  

The strumming started up again. He sang the song twice more before she decided she had – no, _needed –_ to look at him, and pulled off her blindfold. What she saw stole her breath. 

Doyle was standing a few feet away from her with the guitar slung lightly over his left shoulder, playing through the last few chords of the song. It seemed he had not only channeled Bowie in his singing, but in the way he held himself. Against the firelight his frame seemed impossibly thin, and his features very delicate. His long, thin fingers pressed with gentle care against the strings of the guitar, and there was a fragile, boyish quality to his face now, like the guitar had reversed him by at least twenty years. Again she thought of young Ian Doyle from the polaroid. 

"Jesus," she said, overcome, vibrating with thinly leashed intensity on the settee. "Jesus, stop. Stop playing, will you?" 

Doyle stopped and locked eyes with her. There was a noticeable amount of heat in his gaze. She was surprised to find herself returning it. She tried to tell herself – or rather the wolf in her – to get a grip, but it wasn't that easy. The smell of Doyle was in her throat and his voice had been so smooth, so hypnotizing. She felt alive with lust, like she could fly off the settee at any moment and tumble into his arms.  

In a low, purring voice Oakley had never heard before – "Gerry? Is everything alright?" 

 _How many times had he asked me that this week?_  

She looked at Doyle closely, saying nothing, trying to see him for what he was, or should have been – a floppy-faced old man with a guitar who, clearly, couldn't bear to relinquish his youth. Instead, all she saw was a strong, male wolf with a voice that could churn the very core of her.  

"Gerry?" He said again. "Are you alright?" 

Oakley could only answer honestly. "No." 

"Do you want me to carry on?" 

"No." 

"What do you want?" His gold eyes shined at her with hungry expectation. He took a step towards the settee. "Gerry, tell me what you want." 

Desire for the wolf in him overpowered her every civilized thought. "I want . . . I want . . ." Through some untapped source of mental strength, she curbed it fast and said "I want to howl. On the porch. Come on." 

She saw his face slowly clear. "Right." He held up the guitar. "I'll just put this back upstairs first." 

Outside, the evening wore on while the sun lingered, as if suspended in hazy indecision, just enough silver cloud cloaking it to spare her eyes as they stood facing into it. In the cool evening air they howled together – Oakley, banishing her lust in short, sharp screams, and Doyle, listening intently to her music and occasionally joining in with his own, rough timbre.  

When they were finished they looked out over the lake. The water had turned a reddish orange under the setting sun.   

Doyle lightly put his arm around Oakley in a short hug that made her inexplicably dizzy.  

"Feel better?" He asked her. 

She nodded, unsure of what to say. She had let him get close again, was leaning against him, invitingly, _stupid, stupid, oh_ , and now she could feel his breath on her face again too.   

"I suppose I surprised you with that, in there," said Doyle conversationally. 

"Surprise is a good word for it, sure," said Oakley. 

"Does Charles ever –" 

"Sing to me? No. Charlie isn't really the singing type." 

At that, a voice that had been silent for the better part of their friendship abruptly offered it's perspective; _Charlie isn't the singing type, but_ _Ian Doyle is. In fact, he's nothing like Charlie. He's a whole new option. A new flavor. A–_  

"Did you enjoy it, at least?" Doyle asked her. 

"I did." 

Doyle bent suddenly and kissed her cheek.  

"I'm glad," he whispered with a sweet, soft smile. 

"We should go in now," said Oakley, leaping back, _driven_ back by his closeness. 

Overhead, the moon slipped out from between the clouds. Almost full, like it was mocking her. Back inside the cabin it took not one but two cigarettes to bring her pulse down. That night she found herself following Doyle into his room. 

"What are you doing?" He asked her with surprise. 

Oakley didn't know. She made a show of shrugging. "I guess I like sleeping with you." 

Carefully worded. She hoped he knew what she meant. 

Doyle gave her a stunned, almost accusatory look. "You do?" 

Another shrug. Overly casual. "Yeah. You know, one wolf to another. You make me feel –" What had he said the other day? "–safe." 

This time, Doyle's voice was very quiet and very even when he said it. "I'm glad." 

Oakley's gave him a small smile and slipped out of her dress. She was very pink. 

Doyle's eyes flicked up and down her. "Do you want me – That is, would you like me to put my pelt on? Neither of us had our pelts on last night, but–" 

"It's fine either way," said Oakley, settling in. 

Doyle waited for her to put her pelt on. She didn't. She simply slid between the cool sheets and eased up next to him, feeling somehow giddy and relaxed at the same time. Later, between the striking of half past midnight and the hour of one, after she had drifted away, her dreams were invaded by a powerful, hulking wolf with white teeth and sharp, blue eyes, who sang to her that same song of lust she had thrown into the windy black of the porch. The song wound around her like silk, like the caress of a lover, filling her up, easing her from the inside, until she deepened into dreamless slumber.  

 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Friday, September 12th. Morning.]_  

 _[During Oakley's dream_ _the red rock is halfway uncovered by the beach. The tide is still receding. Oakley is beginning to feel its pull._  

 _Find a male._  

 _Mate._  

 _Reproduce_ _._   

 _In the morning t_ _he kettle bubbles as Doyle, still in his pajama bottoms, makes himself a cup of Earl Grey tea. Oakley watches him blankly from the kitchen table, her breakfast forgotten. He isn't wearing a shirt, and she's subtly appreciative. Four days worth of hunting has done wonders for him. He's in much better shape now; bulkier in the arms and trimmer in the stomach. Even his posture's changed, and he seems to move with the confident, easy swagger of an athlete. In the back of her mind a flash-and-gone thought emerges. How would he move in bed? Like a thunderstorm, she imagines. Scary, full of power, but refreshing, too._ _]_  

    
Oakley was keyed up and her appetite reflected that. Her eggs sat untouched by her cold cup of tea. She had been trying to regulate her emotions all morning, but so far nothing had worked. Not a long, hot shower. Not a fresh cooked meal. Not a lit cigarette.  

The only thing that put her at ease was Doyle’s presence in the kitchen. And there was no denying it now. He had a newfound sensual energy, one that Oakley couldn't help but pick up on. It made her weirdly nervous, and she was beginning to suspect Doyle knew that it did. He leaned against the counter, drinking his morning tea, eyeing Oakley in-between sips. He looked obnoxiously enticing, almost like he was posing for her. After a while Oakley felt the silence between them grow heavy with things unsaid.  

She waited for Doyle to speak. Waited, picking at her eggs. Waited, staring down at her teaspoon with steady, vacant concentration.  

Her frustration steadily mounting.  

Finally, when she couldn't take it anymore – “So What are we going to do today, scruff?” 

Her tone was shrill, but pleasant. 

Doyle smiled at her. “What would you like to do, Gerry?” 

“Umm.” She couldn't help herself. She let her gaze drops to his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel . . .” 

“You feel?” 

“I can’t describe it. It’s like – like –" 

She broke off, frowning into space.     

Doyle set his teacup down and started toward the table. 

Oakley stood abruptly. “Let’s go out. Let’s walk to town. Exercise will help.”  

"Help?" 

“It’s fine. Let’s go." 

"Well, yes, alright, but at least let me put on a shirt, Gerry." 

Walking only seemed to excite Oakley further, much to her disappointment. In town she was blindsided by a rush of inexplicable mood-swings. One moment she was smiling and carefree, the next she was brooding and dour. Doyle offered her numerous pacifications – clothing, gifts, chocolate. 

"What do you want, Gerry? Just tell me." 

Oakley ran a hand through her hair. Right then she badly wanted for things to go back to normal. Even though her definition of normal was not exactly defined.  

"I want the moon to explode," Oakley said finally. 

"Beg pardon?" 

"I don't want anything. Let's just go back." 

"Back? But we just got here." 

"I know. I'm sorry. I just want to – to go hunting now. Can we go back? Please?" 

"Of course. No worries."  

Going back to the cabin, the distant rumble of an airplane prompted a semi-tirade about Gatwick from Oakley.   

"Going to have a helluva lot of work to catch up on when I get back," she said crossly, but seconds later, another break in the clouds, and she was explaining how she could phone up her supervisor the minute they got back to the cabin, and quit right there on the spot. "Fuck it, you know? I mean, I could be a perfume salesman instead. Or is it saleswoman? Maybe even a paleontologist. Dig up bones for a living."  

"Yes, that would suit you. That would suit any wolf, I think," laughed Doyle. 

Oakley’s voice was unexpectedly nasty. It almost made her cry. "So, what? You think I'm catering to my wolf-side? Is that it? I don't _have_ to go for jobs suited for wolves, you know. I could be happy doing grunt work. I could be happy as a fucking binman or whatever the fuck. You don't believe me?" 

"I believe you." 

"Damn strait." Some silence and some guilt. "Sorry. I'm just hungry." 

"Aye. You barely touched your breakfast this morning." 

"I know. My appetite's been, um, screwy." She tried not to linger on the accidental metaphor. "I didn't mean to snap." 

"It's alright." 

"It isn't. Not really. The truth is, I don't know what I'd be comfortable doing if I left the airport." 

"You're welcome to work at my gallery," suggested Doyle.  

"Yeah right. I don't know dick about paintings." 

"You could learn. I could teach you. I think you'd be quite good at it, Gerry." 

For the first time that day, Oakley felt an uncomplicated affection for Doyle, touched by his unwavering belief in her. "Thanks, man. I appreciate that." 

They walked back along the path toward the cabin. Oakley, dancing on ahead, happy again, humming a tune Doyle didn’t know.  

Back at the cabin, Doyle kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. Oakley watched him with reluctant fascination. He discarded the last of his clothing and suddenly every impulse to touch him she’d ever had seemed to surge through her brain all at once like a tidal wave. When at last he was a wolf she said "Christ, I need to tear something apart. Can I have the first kill today?" 

"Certainly," barked Doyle. 

Oakley sidled closer, playing with the straps of her dress. Uneasy about taking it off. She strove to control the quaver in her voice. "And, uh, can I have a hug, too, please? I'm feeling all kinds of weird right now."  

Doyle nodded, took several hesitant steps toward her on his hind paws. She rounded him, crowded him, impatiently filling up the space around him as he leaned back against the wall. She tucked herself between his massive wolf's arms and she felt relieved and refreshed and stimulated all at the same time.  

Halfway through their hunt the skies grew dark, and Doyle made an executive decision to call it on account of rain. 

“But I didn't kill anything,” Oakley said as they padded back to the cabin. “I _need_ to kill something, scruff. If I don't mellow out I’m going to – to –” 

“To what?” 

She growled. "I just need to mellow out, okay." 

“You can mellow out back at the cabin,” Doyle told her. “Now come on, before you catch cold.” 

It proceed to rain off and on again until dusk. Doyle and Oakley stayed indoors, eating lunch in the kitchen, reading in the sitting room, playing poker and Trivial Pursuit. Doyle, patiently kind and Oakley, irrepressibly restless and smoking like a chimney. By the time Doyle started cooking dinner her pack was down to just four cigarettes. 

 _Have to ration them out,_ she thought bitterly as she sat down to eat. _No way Ian's gonna let me buy more in town. Figures, when I need them the most, I run out. Fuck a damn duck._   

Sometime after dinner the rain let up, and Doyle, somehow sensing Oakley's frustration, suggested they go for a leisurely stroll by the lake.  

Outside the air was crisp and cool. Oakley walked along with her chin aimed at the sky, hunting for the moon. Doyle gazed up with her when he wasn't gazing at her. On the way back to the cabin they stopped and stood on the pebbly beach for what seemed an eternity. The smoke from Oakley’s cigarette ( _That's three left now, damnit all)_ drifting mellowly in the air, keeping the midges at a safe distance. Doyle's open-throated shirt whipping and rippling with the damp wind. The two of them casually holding hands. Oakley's palms sweatier than usual.  

Across the lake, lightning slashed out of the sky.  

They finished out the day with another firelight drawing session. This time Doyle added an air of dignity to Oakley’s beauty on the page – a trait she'd never noticed in herself before she knew him, and was thrilled to see him highlight. 

"Why do you always make me look so good, huh?" Oakley asked him, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the finished drawing. 

"Would you prefer I make you look ugly, Gerry?" asked Doyle, putting on the last of the finishing touches with his pen. 

Oakley brushed a hand through her hair and settled back onto the settee. "Making me look ugly's impossible, my man." 

"Agreed." 

"But why make me look like _that_ , though? After I've been an obnoxious bitch all day? Are you trying to score extra brownie points?" 

"No." 

"Then why?" 

"I draw what I see." As he said it, he looked at her. There was a warm hunger in his eyes, but it was tempered with a subtle measure of control.  

Oakley's gut twisted in that same giddy, anxious way. "You mean that's how you see me?"  

"Of course," said Doyle.  

Oakley chuckled weakly at that. 

Doyle cocked his head at her. "Are you surprised?" 

 "A little. I mean, I _know_ I'm gorgeous. Obviously. But _that_ level of gorgeous? You should get your prescription checked."  

Bravely, she reached out to tap the bridge of Doyle's drawing glasses with her finger. Doyle broke out laughing. The pleasure that washed through Oakley at the sound was absurd. 

Out the window, the sun was going down. Across the water, another round of thunderclouds were beating their way towards the cabin. Lightning forked at the water and the rising breeze rattled the loose shingles on the cabin roof.  

Doyle tucked the sketchbook under his arm and stood. "Time for bed." 

He offered his hand to her. Oakley looked at his long fingers, finely dusted with ink, and felt a rush of sick, feverish heat that made her skin prickle.   

She quickly crossed her legs and said "I'll go up in a little while. Wanna stay down here til the, uh, fire burns out." 

"I could read you the rest of Alice," he offered, trying to entice her. "We skipped it last night and you missed the ending the night before. I thought I might re-read it to you." 

"I know how it ends." 

"Oh?" Some disappointment. "And?" 

"She wakes up. Obviously." 

"Obviously." 

"I mean, we all wake up at some point from our crazy dreams." Under her breath she muttered "God willing." 

"I suppose so. Are you really not coming up now?" 

"I'll be up in a little while." 

Doyle glanced at the flames dancing in the fireplace and shrugged. "Suit yourself. Sleep well, Gerry."    

He left and she smiled after him, but it was an unsteady smile. 

 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Friday, September 12th. Night.]_  

 _[_ _Oakley dozes on the couch and dreams again of the beach and the red rock. She can see more than half of it now._ _Later, in the darkened cabin Oakley wanders into Doyle's bedroom barefoot. Her eyes are red and raw, her hair absurdly mussed.]_  

 

"Scruff?" Oakley whispered into the shadows. "Hey, scruff?"   

She was closer to the bed than Doyle thought when he turned on the light.   

"Gerry?" He blinked up in surprise. "What are you d–"   

She spoke in a voice that trembled slightly. "I can't sleep. I tried going to my room, but it's too cold." 

"Erm," said Doyle. He felt more than a little disoriented. "I think there's an extra blanket in–" 

"Fuck the extra blanket. Just move over."   

Oakley slid into the bed beside him, wiggling in close, and tugged the linen sheet and comforter up over her ears. She was naked and shivering, and her hard nipples pressed warmly against Doyle's bare back. He groaned with delight and shut the light back off.   

It was only after he'd finally managed to drift off to sleep again that she shook him back awake.   

"Hey, I just realized, neither of us has our pelt on. Do you care?"   

Drowsy and confused, Doyle rolled over on his side to face her. "Huh? Whuh?"   

"You want to put pelts on, or can we stay like this?" There wasn't much concern in her voice. "Does it bother you if we keep them off?"   

"Ouh? Oh, no, no. Not bothered. Just . . ." and he started snoring again.    

Oakley lay back down and snaked an arm around Doyle. Outside, thunder rumbled. 

Doyle woke before dawn the next morning, saw the room dark, felt Oakley's round bottom comfortably settled against the small of his back. Once his erection went away he twisted slightly and watched her sleep for a while, feeling his desire for her flow powerfully through his veins. Geraldine Oakley, with her rosy cheeks and brutal bed-head, was beautiful asleep. She was beautiful awake, too. She was beautiful period, and for those few fast minutes between dawn and the time she finally stirred, the illusion that she was Doyle's seemed unbreakable.   

That morning a cold wind whipped dead leaves around the cabin. Doyle and Oakley went for a brief hunt, and then ate an early dinner in the sitting room by the fire. Afterward, Oakley excused herself and went out on the porch. Doyle joined her a few minutes later. She was sitting perfectly still on the top-most step of the little staircase, one hand resting on her knee, the other stretched out behind her, fingers fanning on the planks. She was staring out into the dusky woods, unaware that she was being watched from the doorway.      

Eventually she lit a cigarette.   

“Shall we take another walk?” Doyle asked her.  

"No." 

“How about a game of cards?” 

"No." 

"How about–"    

"My teeth are crooked,” said Oakley.  

Doyle approached her. “Sorry? Crooked?” 

“Charlie says so, sometimes."      

"Charlie is an ass,” Doyle said bluntly.       

Oakley shook her head. "No. He doesn't say it in a mean way. He makes these observations–"      

"He's still an ass."      

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. Not when I'm a wolf, anyway."     

Doyle took off his jacket, draped it gently around Oakley's shoulders, and sat down beside her. The wooden steps creaked under his weight. Oakley didn't seem to notice.     

"Nothing matters when I'm a wolf."     

Doyle saw the cigarette box half-hidden under the bend of her knee. "I really should have misplaced those things while you were asleep on Monday. You could accidentally burn the forest down."      

Oakley clutched the box of cigarettes defiantly. "You try and take my last cigarette, I'll try and take your _hand_ , buck-o.”     

"Easy, now. I was only playing.”     

She gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Guess I'm a little on edge. Again."     

"Why's that?"     

She shrugged. “The moon. And this.” She gestured to herself and the forest. “Our little holiday. Gonna be over soon, isn’t it.”  

“Unfortunately.” 

Her frown was grim. “Gonna have to go back to being boring."     

"Only for a little while."     

"Long enough to feel self-conscious about my fucking _teeth_."     

"For the record, I like your teeth. Crooked or otherwise," Doyle said. "I mean it. They're lovely. Like big, ivory piano keys."     

Oakley tried not to laugh, failed, and made an obscene gesture at him. Then she offered him her cigarette.  

Doyle brought the burning cigarette to his mouth and paused, unsure.     

"Go on," Oakley goaded coyly.     

With careful reluctance Doyle placed the cigarette between his lips – and groaned. The end was still moist with Oakley's saliva. Before Doyle could stop himself, his tongue darted out to selfishly lick up whatever faint trace of her he could find. First came the pasty, subtle-charcoal flavor of the burnt paper, then the smoke – strong and acrid with a hint of cough-drop mint beneath it – and finally a bittersweet tangy taste that reminded Doyle of biting into an unripened satsuma. This, he thought, was what Oakley tasted like.  

 _I'll kiss you again before you leave so help me–_     

He sighed around the cigarette.     

"Aw, come on and breath in already." Oakley said. She slapped him hard on the back.     

Doyle nearly swallowed the cigarette. He ducked away from her, gasping. A rush of smoke filled his lungs, and he immediately started to cough it back up.        

"Atta boy!" Oakley said. "Now you're a _real_ man."     

" _Ough_ ," Doyle hacked, stubbing out the cigarette (and what taste of her remained on it) with vile repulsion.     

"Whoa, hey! Come on, man. I only had that one and this one left."     

Doyle cleared his throat and said "Disgusting things. No good for you. Quit them this instant."     

"As if." 

They sat together in silence for a while, looking up at the late-summer stars – flung out across the night sky in a brilliant sweep of unpolluted brightness. Then Doyle stood up, stretched, and told her it was time for bed. She looked back at him, a question readable in her eyes. He nodded, and she smiled her thanks.  

Later, Doyle sat in the big corner-room bed, watching as Oakley pulled off her boots. Dazzled, he rested his stubbled chin on one of her shoulders, brought his claws out and started scratching her neck. General grooming with only a mild undercurrent of sexual tension.   

Oakley leaned into his touch. “Mmm. That’s nice.”   

Doyle grinned back, a wide, foolish, loved-up grin. He thought about how many years he'd spent shaving his chest and back. How much time he'd wasted trimming his nails and refining his eyebrows and plucking the hair from his palms. He thought about how often he brushed his teeth, how often he flinched whenever they looked pointer than normal in the mirror. He thought about how much effort had gone into maintaining the illusion of humanity. How much energy had gone into hiding the wolf. How many years had been wasted.  

 _What did it ever bring me, besides misery?_ _Why did I ever bother to maintain myself that way when I could’ve just BEEN?_    

He knew the answer.   

 _To keep mother happy, of course. And to keep the strangers comfortable. No more of that now – Gerry accepts it, all of it. She likes me as I am, thank god._    

“Shall I do behind your ears?” He asked her, still scratching.  

“You do that and I’ll never get to sleep,” Oakley laughed.    

“Fair enough.” He settled down under the sheets and waited for her to put her pelt on. She hadn't put it on the night before, and he was surprised when she decided not to again. 

The curve of her smooth naked body against his was indescribably wonderful.  

 

* * *

 

 _[_ _Sunday, September 14th. Morning.]_  

 _[Three quarters of the red rock towers above the shrinking ocean. Soon, its entire length will be visible from the beach._  

 _Outside the dream, the shrill cry of a barn owl as it lifts off, departing now from it’s perch. Veering away over a spectacular expanse of pine trees. Picking out the picturesque high street and its dilapidating shops full of Scottish-tourist tat. Over the old-style pub and the little clattering post office, the barber’s shop, the corner grocery store and the long dark church._    

 _Clearing the rolling hills now, coming into view of the lake and the rocky beach and the roomy cabin with the lazy curls of smoke rising from it’s chimney._    

 _Like the owl, the smoke fades at once into the windy dawn._    

 _Inside, huddled snugly under four heavy blankets, Doyle and Oakley rouse to the sound of knocking._ ] 

 

They were still in bed at eleven-thirty when a car pulled up outside. Footsteps crunched across the drying grass in the clearing. Someone knocked at the door. The sound jolted Oakley out of her sleep. She raised a weary eye to the light, then subsided again. The knocking continued. Oakley rolled onto her back and threw an arm over her eyes. Beside her, Doyle slept. 

Her voice was loud in the tiny room. “Door.” 

A disgruntled sigh from Doyle. 

"Door," she said again, prodding him so that he would roll onto his side.   

 Muffled by the pillow – "Ouwhah?"   

"Door. Someone's at the d–" 

The knocking started up again, faster and more pronounced.     

Doyle sprang awake. "What? What?" He heard the knocking then, and scrambled out of bed. Oakley watched him fumble with trousers and throw on a fresh shirt. His footsteps on the staircase were a rushed, heavy jumble. A few minutes passed. Oakley waited for the inevitable wooden creak of the front door, for the knocking to cut off abruptly. Nothing happened. Eventually the grogginess fell away and Oakley pushed herself out of bed. She descended the stairs in Doyle's green dressing gown, only to find him in the sitting room, sprinting from one corner to the other, trying frantically to clear up the cards on the floor, the board game pieces next to the fireplace, his pens and sketchbook by the settee. 

"What the hell are you doing?" She asked him, bemused. 

"Nothing, it's fine, go back to bed." 

She scrunched her nose at him. "What about the door? Aren't you going to get it?"  

When he didn't answer she huffed an agitated sigh, and strode towards the front door herself, clutching her dressing gown closed against the chill. Just before she reached it Doyle glanced up. 

"No!" He shouted, and jumped over the arm of the settee to stop her. 

She whirled to face him. "Why? What's wrong?"    

"It's Spencer."    

"Who?"    

Ushering her away from the door – "Spencer. The friend I rented the cabin from. He thinks I'm here alone."    

"Are you _serious_?"   

"It's what I told him."   

She gave him a dirty look. "So, what, I'm supposed to hide or something?"    

"If it's not too inconvenient for you."    

He was being, Oakley hoped, ironic. "You're not serious? Christ, you _are_. Fuck hiding, man. I'll just put my pelt on instead." 

She started to change.    

Doyle went to lunge for her – " _No!_ " – seemed to realize how manic he looked, and awkwardly composed himself. Smoothing his hair back he said "I mean, no, Spencer's probably not a dog person. Better to hide."    

The knocking on the door came again, louder this time.    

Doyle looked at Oakley with an expression of pleading panic.  

"Jeeeesus," snorted Oakley. "Fine, I'll go upstairs and hide." 

"Thank y–" 

" _If_ you let me buy more cigarettes in town." 

"Of, for fucks sake, Gerry–" 

She pretended not to hear him and moved toward the door. "Please to meet you mister, what was his name? Spencer?" 

Doyle got in front of her fast. "Alright, alright. I'll buy you cigarettes. Now please go upstairs and hide." 

"Will do, chief." 

Doyle gusted out a relieved sigh and saw her to the stairs. When she was safely at the top he opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Oakley waited on the landing at first, but then resigned herself to her bedroom. There she watch him with a sort of bored curiosity from the small front-facing window. Her face was pale and ghostly beneath the eave of the roof.     

Below, Doyle stood in front of the porch steps, looking slim in his open-throated shirt and dark slacks, curly silver hair blowing around his head in the breeze. Oakley watched him talk with a short, portly man for several minutes, a studiously calm expression on his face. At one point his eyes swept back to the window where she sat staring down at them, and then slid off with no recognition at all. But she thought she saw a hint of a smile come onto his face, briefly.      

More muffled talking. Then the portly man belched out a laugh loud enough to hear through the glass, surprised Doyle with a hearty pat on the back, and hastily left.   

"Well?" Oakley asked when Doyle came back inside.  

“Spencer wanted to know how much longer I'd be staying, and what he'd be getting in return for it," explained Doyle. "I told him I’d throw a gallery show for him this upcoming Wednesday. Last minute. I'll have to pull some strings, but I reckon I can get a crowd in.”   

“Cool. Can I come? I know I’m not your typical art snob but–”   

“I’d love it if you came,” said Doyle.   

Oakley smiled. “Great. I'll go call Charlie and let him know we're invited.”   

Doyle tried to match her smile but couldn’t quite manage it.    

 

* * *

 

 _[Noon brings gray sunshine and drizzly showers with it. Doyle and Oakley walk together along the slick high-street, sharing a single umbrella. Doyle in sunglasses, well-bundled against the cold but enjoying the air on his face. Oakley, wearing the dark tank top he's bought her with the complimentary Union Jack scarf (patriotic but not overstated) under her jacket. Both of them chilly, their noses red and the puddles shimmering under their feet.]_  

 

Doyle bought Oakley two packs of cigarettes, a candy bar, six bright print shifts and her own pair of smoked amber sunglasses within the first hour of reaching town. Later, he showed her the antiques store where he'd bought the guitar. The interior was cluttered but clean, and all around were shelves and small tables filled with pretty, useless objects. China figurines, embroidered pillows, hurricane lamps, ceramic dishes, ornate vases, lace handkerchiefs, costume jewelry.  

A small bronze statue of a rabbit sat on the end of one of the tables. Oakley picked it up and said to Doyle, "For Charlie?"   

Doyle felt a pang of jealousy clench his stomach. He pushed the feeling aside and tried to look as though he were paying attention. "Too ornate. Charles has simple tastes. Try something simpler."        

Oakley put the rabbit back where she’d found it and went on searching. "Oh, now here we go. That’s _perfect_.”   

She had the vendor ring her up, and then hurried back to Doyle. Dropping a small metallic box into his hand, she said "Surprise." 

Doyle frowned. “A cigarette lighter?”   

“Mm-hmm. Now you can light my cigarettes for me.”   

Outside the shop, Oakley placed an unlit cigarette between her pointy teeth and waited. Doyle brandished the lighter she'd given him and hastily lit the tip of the cigarette for her.   

“Such a gentleman,” she said, and took a drag. 

Doyle took a chance and said "How often does Charles light your cigarettes?"  

"Used to, back when we were first dating." 

"Does he approve of your smoking?" 

"He says I have an oral fixation. Beyond that, I don't think he cares." 

"He ought to," said Doyle. "He ought to get you to quit." 

"If he did that he'd have to deal with my withdrawal. As if." 

She poked around the high-street for a little while longer with Doyle, made him light a second cigarette, and then walked off with him in the direction of the cabin. Along the way they passed a small department-store. The department-store window-display was already filled with Christmas decorations.  

Oakley did a double-take and stopped walking. "Jesus, really? Can you believe it?”  

They went inside and saw the aisles were packed with holly wreaths and advent calendars.   

Oakley rubbed the bridge of her nose like she was warding off a headache. "I mean _Jeeee-sus,_ it's not even October yet. What about Halloween?"  

"It's like I told you, we don't really do Halloween here,” Doyle reminded her.  

"Yeah, but still. September's just too damn early for this shit," said Oakley, inspecting a short plastic Christmas tree covered in tacky-looking ornaments.  

Doyle bent suddenly and kissed her cheek. She jerked back as though a shock had run through her.  

"Wha–"   

“Sorry. Had to,” said Doyle, as evenly as he could.    

One of her eyebrows shot up. "You . . . _had_ to?"  

Doyle said nothing and pointed above her head. Oakley followed his finger to the ceiling, where she saw an over-sized leaf of mistletoe hanging down, directly over them.    

"As I said – had to. It's bad luck otherwise," Doyle explained.  

“Um, well, thanks.” She sounded unsure how to feel about it.  

They made their way back to the exit. Despite the shuffle of people back and forth, pushing their heavy, squeaking trollies past him, Doyle was aware only of Oakley. She looked rattled, but appreciatively so – the same as she had looked when he had kissed her on the porch the night before. Little by little, he was chipping away at her, the way a sculptor extracts a figure out of marble. He sensed that she was almost ready, almost finished. 

On the way back to the cabin he put a casual arm around her shoulder. The contact sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. He was surprised and happy when she told him that she loved how relaxed he was around her now – how tactile he’d become. 

Indoors again, Doyle replaced his sunglasses with his heavy-rimmed, rectangular spectacles and fell hard into the settee.   

"Do us up a fire, will you, Gerry?” Doyle said as he kicked off his shoes. “I’m absolutely knackered."  

"Want to skip the hunt?"  

"Aye."      

When the fire was lit, Doyle stretched himself out on the settee with his hands behind his head, and propped both legs up on the opposite arm-rest.       

Oakley loomed over him.      

"And where am I supposed to sit, exactly?" She asked in mock-annoyance.       

Doyle quirked an eyebrow at her. “On a chair? On the floor?" In a gesture of only half-nonchalance, he waved a hand at his crotch and added "Right here's fine, too, if you like."       

Oakley face flamed but she kept her voice sardonic. "Uh-huh, sure, I'll just sit and spin."   

He sat up slightly. “Tell you what. Bring me a drink and something to eat–”     

“I’m not your maid–”     

“ _Please_ , and I’ll let you on the settee.”  

“How about I kick your ass off _my_ settee now, and then _you_ go get _me_ a drink.” 

“Not your settee.” 

“I’ve been on it more often than you have.” 

“True, but that doesn’t make it yours.” 

“Doesn’t make it yours either,” said Doyle impassively. 

“Come on and move for me. I moved for you this morning. I went and hid in the damn bedroom while you were talking to your buddy.” 

“And I bought you cigarettes as payment.” 

The good nature left her voice. “What is this, Ian?” 

“What’s what, Geraldine?” 

“This. Are you doing this on purpose? Are you trying to piss me off that way you can – can sing to me again? Is that it?” 

Doyle laughed. “Oh yes. This is all an elaborate ruse to garner myself an audience.” 

“I mean it. Why are you doing this?” 

“I’m not doing anything. Here.” He pulled himself up and made some space for her. 

She showed the briefest hesitation, and then sat down in a heavy, pouting way, her leg settling against him, her thigh next to his radiating the gentle warmth he loved. He invited her to lean her cheek against his arm. He wanted her to safe, like she could sink into the settee and just sleep. She seemed to have the same idea.  

“Relax,” she said. 

“I am.”  

And to show he meant it, he let his head loll back against the settee cushions, and closed his eyes. With his head thrown back like that Oakley could see the cords in his throat – tense and tight at first, growing softer as he relaxed. He was no more blind than he was stupid, and knew he had to have some appeal, by now. He was even confident enough to picture Oakley beside him, sadly dazzled by how good he looked in the flickering glow of the fire.    

In fact, he was almost certain he could _feel_ her attention on him, light but there, like a feather tickling his cheek. After a while his eyes peeled back open, and they looked at each other. Neither said a word. Doyle leaned towards her, just a fraction of an inch, indulging in the same impulse that had lead him to kiss her in the department store and on the porch. To his astonishment, Oakley started to lean toward him as well. He found himself frozen before her, trapped in her eyes. They were the devastating eyes of a beast of prey. Dark, nocturnal, golden like the moon, and how like the moon she was. Temperamental and strong, she could send waves of herself crashing against him like the brine that beat the cliffs if wanted to, but she could calm him, also. And he wanted that. To fall in love with the moon and be lulled by its light and then drowned by its oceans. His heart howled and he thought _Submit, ask me, tell me, I would pick up the embers in the fireplace for you, juggle them for you, burn the talent out of my hands for you – so long as you love me back._  

Across the floor the logs twitched in the grate. Wet smoke, the flames climbing, climbing. Coals collapsing under the heat.  

Oakley’s eyes were the size of saucers now, and they were filled with an intense phosphorescence. Doyle scooted closer. He could almost taste her breath. Could almost touch her. Some part of him was delighted to detect a recurrence of theme in this – the deja vu of their first night at the cabin, both of them on the couch, slightly tipsy, sitting close. Doyle recognized how far he'd come as a wolf, as a man, and as a romantic, and was indescribably proud of himself. 

The bark of an unburned log cracked like a whip in the silent sitting room.  

Both Doyle and Oakley stood at the same time and moved apart – Doyle to check on the logs, Oakley over to the kitchen, stammering a mess of gibberish about needing to cook dinner. Doyle offered his assistance, and was immediately refused.  

While she occupied herself with dinner – 

"Just about the last of the stag meat, just so you know," she told him. 

– Doyle wandered into the study and stood before Spencer’s cluttered bookshelf. He scanned the bindings, pulled one out for a better look. _“The Influence of German Expressionism On Modern Design”._  

“An entire show devoted to green tigers. See what I put myself through for you, Geraldine,” he muttered tiredly. But she couldn't hear him from the kitchen. He re-shelved the book and left the study.  

Together they ate dinner, drank some of Spencer Hitsch's wine, played a game of cards on the floor by the fire.      

"How about strip-poker?" Doyle asked, re-shuffling the deck.     

Oakley's eyebrows shot up. "Are you joking?"     

Doyle stopped shuffling and gauged her face. A long pause.  

"Of course I'm joking, you silly girl," he said at last. 

That evening they went out for their after-dinner walk and found the moon bowed between the constellations, just a thin blue sliver. Back inside, Oakley left a trail of crumpled clothes across the staircase on her way to the bedroom. Behind her, Doyle stooped to pick them up. 

 _Tomorrow,_  he thought determinedly, as they reached the bedroom. _Our last day up here. That's when I'll do it. I am going to sweep you off your feet, Geraldine Oakley._

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**16.**

**SEPTEMBER - Full Moon**

“He woke with a jolt from a sleep he'd never meant to have.”

― [**Michelle Paver**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/119755.Michelle_Paver), [**Wolf Brother**](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1193402)

 

“Charity had discovered there were things you didn't want to tell. Shame wasn't the reason. Sometimes it was just better-kinder- to keep up a front” 

― [**Stephen King**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3389.Stephen_King), **[Cujo](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/996156)**

 

 

 

_[Saturday, September 13th. Evening.]_

_[Tate Harrington is muscular, good-looking, and – standing a broad-shouldered six foot seven – he's considered by most to be a mountain of a man. But he’s also your classic, clean-cut boy next door. Mr. America with blue eyes, blonde hair, a smoothly shaved, softly chiseled face, and a smile that extends past “charming” and into the realm of “perfect for prime-time television”._

_Which is exactly where Tate Harrington works._

_Every night at six o'clock, Wyoming viewers can tune in and watch Harrington give the local weather report on News Channel 10. And Harrington gives his reports well. Always keeps calm, always stays collected, always speaks in that raspy southern drawl that's tantamount to audio honey._

_Tate Harrington does his job with the same playful confidence of a rascally puppy, because underneath it all, that's exactly what he is. A great big rascally puppy.]_

 

Tate Harrington could sense a thunderstorm coming from two counties over. He could predict when a tornado would touch down three days before the funnel ever formed. And he could do it all without looking at any of News Channel 10's impressive array of weather-measuring instruments. 

This uncanny knack for accurate weather forecasting made Tate Harrington the best meteorologist station-producer Chris Harlot had ever seen. When Harlot asked him _how_ he did what he did over lunch one day, Harrington jokingly replied “The same way dogs do, I reckon. I just listen to what my gut tells me.”

"How do you mean?" Said Harlot, clearly stumped.

"Here, you got a pen handy? I'll show ya."

Harrington proceeded to sketch out a quick chart on his napkin. _Tate’s Gut Chart_ , he labeled it. On one side of the napkin he put a column of typical weather-icons. Rainclouds, sunshine, snowflakes, wind arrows. And on the other side of the paper, he made a column full of words like _dizzy, jittery, anxious, depressed_. Using the pen, Harrington drew several corresponding lines between the various weather icons and the symptoms they induced in him. He passed the napkin back to Harlot and waited while the other man reviewed it. 

"Sorry, Tate, but I just don't get this at all," said Harlot, scratching his head.

Harrington raised a forgiving hand to him. "That's alright, Chris. I can walk you through it."

He took up the pen again and traced along the lines he'd drawn. 

“So, take rain for instance. I get sleepy for rain, see? And, uh, jittery or dizzy for thunder, and _real_ keyed up for the big stuff. Like, bad storms, hurricanes, twisters, full moons. Wrath of God type stuff, know what I mean?” 

Harlot nodded. 

“Course, not everyone can do it," Harrington went on, in a proud tone that bordered on boastfulness. "Don't get me wrong – lots of folks in my family can do it, to a point. My uncle can do it real good, 'specially with snow. But I'm the only one in my family can do it well enough to earn a paycheck." Here Harrington let out a bark of laughter, sat back, and patted his muscular stomach like it was concealing a golden goose. "Yes sir-ee, it’s all about them gut feelings, I tell y’what. Always – _always_ – trust the gut!”

Over time, that saying became Tate Harrington's motto.

_Always trust the gut._

And trust it he did. He was trusting it now – as he sat in his small, News Channel 10 dressing room reciting the Saturday evening weather report back to himself. As of yesterday, his gut had informed him that, for the next day and a half, most of Wyoming would be beset by rain, and as a result at least one major river would flood. And there was something else, too – something bigger, more universal – coming around the bend. Something that would have a much more relevant impact on his gut, and the guts of those he knew well, when it finally arrived.  

Harrington thought of the old song lyric, faded and hissy in the car-radio of his mind: _I see a bad moon rising._

He glanced down at the sheet of copy in his hands. Truthfully, he didn’t need it. To rehearse at all was impractical since everything that was on the copy sheet would be played back for him over the teleprompter during filming. But Harrington liked to know what to expect – in his work as well as the weather.

“Howdy, folks," he began, talking to his mirror-double. "This is Tate Harrington, coming at you with the five-day forecast. Tonight calls for heavy rain and possible flooding in the rural areas of – no, no, that's all wrong. Rephrase it."

Looking at his reflection, Harrington cleared his throat and began again, practicing his pronunciation, his timing. Trying to get the sincerity of his expression just right.

"Howdy, folks. This is Tate Harrington here with your five-day forecast. No doubt y'all had your umbrellas out with you this morning. Well, we can expect the rest of tonight to be mostly cloudy with a passing odd sprinkle or two. And breezy. Real breezy. We’re talking cool, late-summer winds turning colder as temperatures slowly fall from a record-low of fifty at midnight, to the upper forties later on. 

"And for tomorrow morning we’ve got partly cloudy with areas of frost forming. Seasonably chilly. Low near thirty-two, but colder for the normally warmer countryside. 

"As for the rest of Sunday, expect filtered or dim sunshine through thicker clouds at times. Round noon the skies should be brighter. After a frosty start, expect a seasonably cool day. High near fifty-two, with northerly winds blowing around fifteen miles per hour.

"Of course, it can’t all be smooth sailing. On Sunday night we’re gonna start seein' some thickening cloud cover, with a big ol' storm front moving in on Monday. Y'all can expect scattered thunder-showers over the northern part of the state Monday afternoon, with a possible flood warning for the far north." Giving the next sentence a suave, personable twang – "I'm looking at you, Buckingham River."

He threw a light chuckle in for good measure and then switched back to his professional bravado.

"Now, the rain should taper off Tuesday morning, skies should be clear from then on into October. Which is good news for those wantin' to catch a glimpse of the up and coming lunar eclipse, the final in a series of four, which should start round ten o'clock on September twenty-seventh."

He paused to catch his breath and let his imaginary audience absorb what he'd told them. Then he continued in a lecturing tone. 

"This _harvest moon_ – or _blood moon_ , as some call it for its reddish hue – is particularly special, since it'll coincide with a _supermoon_ , creating a rare event that won't happen again for almost twenty years. It'll be visible in most of the United States and other parts of the world, and like I said, the current local forecast shows a nice clear night on the twenty-seventh, which means y'all should get a real good view of it."

Harrington stopped for a third time, dropped his voice to a whisper, and went on in a secretive fashion.

“Now, for all you happy _howlers_ tuning in, be advised that, while the blood moon'll be a right pretty sight, it'll also switch your brains from cool on over to _crazy_. And we're not talking 'bout your average full moon crazy here. We're talking the other-side-of-the-coin, hare in a hatpin kinda crazy. So be prepared to experience one or more of the following effects in the weeks leading up to the eclipse . . ."

Harrington shuffled the copy sheets as though hunting for a list, and then pretended to read aloud from them.

"Heightened awareness, anxiety, insomnia or increased exhaustion, disgruntlement, periods of cognitive confusion (including mental fog, difficulty concentrating, and forgetfulness), intense dreams (the hot and steamy kind), brief bouts of vertigo, increased aggression in males, increased _arousal_ in females (we're talking bone-jumpin' here, ladies, if you'll excuse the pun, and I don't just mean your mates, I mean anything that moves), skittishness in cubs, and, in extreme cases, difficulty keeping your, ehem, _masks_ in place."

Harrington shuffled the copy sheets again and flashed his reflection a bright, reassuring smile.

"But don't you worry, happy howlers. Once the eclipse is over you'll go back to normal. Well, as normal as any howler can be, that is," Harrington added with a dark chuckle. "Anywho, this eclipse is a once-in-a-generation opportunity you won't wanna  miss, so I encourage y'all to get on out, take a look, and sing the sky a song."

One last round of shuffling, followed by another of his trademark smiles. 

"That's all for today's weather, folks. Hope y'all have a real good week. See you next time!"

Finished, Harrington leaned back in his chair, satisfied with himself. He would omit the last part of his report when it came time to film, just as he always did, and spread it by mouth later on when he had the time.

Behind him there came a knock on the door. Chris Harlot poked his head into the dressing room. 

"Time to mic you, Tate," said Harlot, gesturing down the hall with his large, black stage-manager's radio.

"How's my makeup look?" Asked Harrington.

"Fine."

"And my hair?"

"Fine, just fine," Harlot said, a little impatiently. 

Harrington quickly straitened his tie in the mirror, stood, and followed Harlot out of the dressing room.

Twenty minutes later Harrington stood in a medium shot on the camera-two preview monitor, his back to the broad blue weather-screen, Gale Ferris and Karen Waters at their news desk on the line-monitor a few feet away. Harrington stood perfectly still while he waited for the women to finish and for Harlot to give him his cue. The stage lights were hot on the top of his head, and the stink of makeup and hairspray was all around him like a smog. He could feel the clip-on microphone wire, well-hidden below the fabric of his crisp white shirt, pulling ever so gently against the hairs on his chest. Sometimes, right before he went on the air, he got the urge to tear the microphone off – along with his skin. Sometimes, right before he went on the air, he wondered how the viewers might react to a werewolf delivering their local forecast, instead of a weatherman. At the very least it might increase the station's ratings – but only for a month or two. People around Huelette enjoyed the new and the bold, but they got tired of it fast, so you were always expected to outdo yourself. Then again, that was true of any television program, news or otherwise. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Harlot finally raised his hand and pointed silently in Harrington's direction. Harrington caught the cue out of the corner of his eye, and turned in time to see camera-two swing around to face him. A big, solid box with a tiny broadcasting light blinking steadily on and off on its top. 

Staring cheerfully into it, Harrington began his report – hoping inwardly that those watching him on high definitions screens couldn’t make out the tiny dots of perspiration beading his forehead. Or the thin specs of yellow swirling subtly in his eyes.

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 8th. Night.]_

_[When Edward Gibson comes to at the Conall Animal Hospital he finds himself slumped on the floor beside the cabinets with his operating gloves still on. At first he has no memory of passing out. Then he spies the empty operating table, and remembers the dog.]_

 

There was no question in his mind, no fraction of doubt or self-denial. Edward Gibson had seen the dog change. Had seen it's bestial face become something unremarkable and pleasant. Had seen it's terrible gold-yellow eyes dull to mild brown. Had seen it _transform_ into a naked woman, and none of it had been figment or illusion.

It had been _real._

Shock wiped out the rest of Gibson's thought. He sat there on the cold floor of the operating room like a toddler for a few minutes, gaping stupidly. Processing. When he finally regained himself he was very leery of moving for fear that the dog might still be in the room with him. Slowly, he eased himself along the floor until he reached the stainless-steel trolley by the operating table. He spent a minute rifling around in its drawers, ever watchful for the dog.

_Where is it where did it go?_

Gibson equipped himself with a clean scalpel from the trolley, and stealthily crawled a ring around the room. He found no dog and no woman. As he reached the open doorway Marlene Mackenzie stepped in, glanced around briefly, spotted him on the floor, and slapped her hands together once, loudly.

"Oi! Doctor!"

Gibson stifled a scream and whirled on his hands and knees to face her.

"What are you doing on the floor, you daft looney!" There was concern in McKenzie's voice, but not for Gibson. "Get up, get up! You've let the dog get out!" She whipped her head around, blinking back down the hall. "It's in the waiting room right now! Get _up_!"

Gibson stared up at her convulsively, his mouth working, his eyes dark holes. McKenzie took a step toward him and he practically dove backward. Mackenzie's face scrunched uncomprehendingly. 

"Doctor Gibson. _Eddie._ I don't–"

“Listen!" Gibson began, more loudly than he meant to. He realized right away that he was still wearing his surgical mask. He tore it off and said "You have to listen to me. That dog, the one that was just here, it was huge, enormous, and after I knocked it out, it – it –”

There was no way to make it sound sane. So he simply blurted it out.

Mackenzie stared at him with wide my-ears-are-deceiving-me eyes. "What?" 

"The dog! The dog turned into a _woman_ ," Gibson repeated gravely.  

Mackenzie gave a quick disbelieving snort. "We haven't got time for your wonky sense of humor, Eddie." She gestured toward the doorway. "That dog is loose out there! You have to go restrain it!"

"That _dog_ is a _woman_ , Marlene!" Gibson insisted.

But of course she didn’t believe him. It was the business of sane people not to believe the ones that sounded crazy.  

"That's just mad, Eddie! I mean that's just positively looney! Now get up," Mackenzie shouted impatiently.

Gibson glanced fearfully past her shin to the doorway, but did not move. Mackenzie crouched down on her ankles with the clear intention of pulling him up off the floor. He pushed her away and crawled to the doorway. Gripping the doorframe for support, he quickly rose to his feet, and, ignoring Mackenzie's baffled questions, crept hesitantly out into the open hallway. A fast scan from left to right showed the dog was nowhere to be seen. Gibson swallowed back the lump of fear that had formed in his throat, brandished the scalpel, and lunged from the doorway. He didn't give himself time for second-guessing. Holding the scalpel out in front of him, he went running down the hall toward the waiting room, looking like a madman, and half sprang, half fell through the doorway. The waiting room was empty and still. Gibson rushed to the front door, yanked it open, and stuck his head out into the cool, drizzly night, searching vainly for the dog-woman. But she wasn't there. She was gone, and so was Ian Doyle, the man who had brought her in.

Mackenzie was suddenly behind Gibson in the waiting room, staring at him with a kind of vapid, almost bovine confusion.

"Where . . . ?" She asked softly, worry on her face. "Where is it? Where's the dog?" Realization dawning on her – "And that old geezer?" Now with rising alarm – "Where are they?"

Gibson looked at her, at a loss, and at last some doubt trickled in. 

_It was all in your mind, Eddie. All in your mind . . ._

Gibson found himself thinking that maybe he _had_ imagined the dog-woman after all. It had been a long day, he was clearly over-tired, maybe even on the edge of getting sick. For all he knew he had a fever, was delirious, or maybe – _maybe_ – he'd finally gotten so bored of his bland, predictable small-town life that his mind had invented something amazing to keep him occupied. Gibson hoped that wasn't the case. The last thing he wanted was to become one of those small, desperate people who ranted and raved about Bigfoot and UFOs and, apparently, dog-women. 

"I think I need to go home, Marlene," Gibson said at last. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded, as if agreeing with himself. "Aye. Home."

He would not have people thinking him insane, or that the first feelers of senility had touched him early. Laughing a tittering, awkward, mid-life-crisis laugh, he left Marlene Mackenzie with a bevy of unanswered questions.

"But what about the dog! She didn't have a cone! And who's going to pay for the bloody surgery!"

"I'll figure it out in the morning, Marlene," said Gibson, heading for the door.

"But _doctor–"_

Scratching the back of his head with feigned chagrin, Gibson hurried out of the hospital and made his way across the car-park to his dented Vauxhall Nova. Fast on his feet, tentatively watchful, expecting a hundred lurking delusions to lunge out at him from the shadows.

On the drive back to his house he noticed, for the first time in his life, how poorly lit the high street was, and how overgrown the underbrush by the side of the sidewalk looked. As his eyes swept over the gloomy neighborhood streets and the houses lining them, silent and blank and oddly solemn-looking, he caught sight of a strange shape. He slammed his foot against the brake pedal, and the Nova screeched to a jittery stop. The small, trembling deer was standing smack dab in the middle of the road. In the yellow flare of the Nova's headlights it looked ghostly gray. Almost like – _The dog!_

Several long seconds passed. Finally, the deer seemed to realize where it was. Gibson watched it totter away into the brush, and then drove on with his heart hammering in his chest. He reached home fifteen minutes later. 

Gibson lived alone in a brown frame house which sat by itself on the side of a remote hill. The isolation, so pleasant during the day, now turned a cold, perturbing mockery in the shadowy dark. Gibson pulled onto the steep gravel drive and turned the ignition key, and the sound of the Nova's rattling engine died away, revealing a silence that Gibson found deeply unsettling. Reluctantly, he got out of the car and saw that he was surrounded on all sides by black forest. He sucked in a breath, and sprinted briskly up the gravel drive toward the house. Every arrant branch seemed to snag his pant cuffs as he whisked by – sending his heart leaping into his throat. Only when he was standing in the front hall with the door safely locked behind him did he realize that he was still wearing his operating scrubs.

"And holding this bloody thing, too, apparently," he muttered to himself, peering down at the scalpel in his hand. How he'd managed to grip the steering wheel with it, he wasn't sure.

Gibson stood in the dark of the front hallway for a moment, still clutching the scalpel, listening for the subtle sounds of intrusion. The only sound in the house was the raw, gasping sound of his own breathing. In a burst of courage he flew around the house, turning on each and every downstairs light there was. Upstairs, his reflection in the bathroom mirror made him jump. Down the hall fast. He slammed through his office door, skidded like a skier almost out of control, and grabbed the edge of the desk to fumble for the lamp. His bedroom stretched out before him, empty and quiet, the same as it had been since his wife left him. He switched on the bedside lamp, moved across the room, and checked the view from the bedroom window, half expecting to see the woman, or the dog, whichever, sitting in his back garden under the moonlight. Waiting for him.

_You saw what you weren’t supposed to see, Eddie-boy. Now I'll make you disappear._

But there was nothing in the back garden but grassy dark.

Gibson let out an exhausted sigh and shut the curtains. The adrenaline was finally starting to wane. After locking his bedroom door and discarding all but his boxers, he pulled the duvet from his bed and lay down slowly – painfully alert, looking at nothing but the ceiling. The scalpel sat within easy reach on the bed-stand below the lamp, which had been switched on to it’s brightest setting. 

Eventually Gibson dozed a little, but did not sleep. 

The next morning he went back to the clinic before it opened and reviewed the surgery CCTV tape from the previous night. The footage showed the dog, grainy and small on the operating table, and himself over by the cabinets, cut-off at the shoulders by the edge of the monitor. Gibson clicked through the footage frame by frame, watching as he turned his back on the operating table in stop-motion. He saw the dog start to twitch on the table. There was a single frame where in which the dog looked wrong – fuzzy, elongated, reshaped into something that resembled neither woman nor dog – but there was none of the transformation Gibson had seen in the reflection of the cabinet door. And while the single frame was proof of a kind that he had seen _something_ , it was not enough to satisfy. Especially when the more logical half of his mind dismissed it as a simple defect in the footage.  

Gibson made a copy of the tape, took it home, and hid it in a shoebox under his bed with the intention of one day finding a way to enhance the footage. Afterward, he called Marlene Mackenzie to tell him he was feeling poorly, and would not be coming into work.

He sat down to a solitary breakfast at noon still thinking about it. He knew he was getting older, that he was still in the process of accepting it. He remembered how he had discovered the first threads of gray in his hair ten years ago on his thirty-eighth birthday.

 _Well, technically, good old barber-Johnny made the discovery,_ Gibson thought glumly.

The discovery had thrown him into a savage depression which caused him to forego his bi-weekly haircut for six months straight. As if the act of visiting good old barber-Johnny had somehow caused the gray to show up in the first place. For years after, Gibson had still refused to entertain the thought of getting old. But it had crept up on him all the same, despite the faith he put in the talisman of denial. What he had spent his youth believing was for other people, was now, finally, his.

But he wasn’t so old as to be considered far-gone. He looked down at his poached eggs. Was he?

"No," he told the eggs sternly. "No, I'm not crazy. I mean, I'm talking to my eggs, but everyone does that."

The eggs wiggled under the prongs of his fork. 

"And I'm not having a mid-life crisis, either!" He went on instantly. "Mid-life crisis are Ferraris and affairs, not – not –" He didn't want to say it. "Could it be about the missus? _Ex-_ missus? I mean, maybe. She was a bitch, aye, and what I saw could certainly count as a – a visual metaphor. Of a kind . . ."

Suddenly the eggs seemed unappealing to Gibson. He shut his eyes, licked his lips. The dog-woman's face floated in front of him, smiling unpleasantly in the darkness behind his eyelids.

He wondered whether seeing her was indicative of a bigger problem.

 _Mood swings + hallucinations = brain tumor_ , thought Gibson with dark anxiety.

He knew there was no history of cancer in his family. The same went for most other forms of brain disease and mental instability. But he also knew that there was always a small chance the universe conspired against him. Just because it wasn't likely, didn't mean he couldn't be the first in his family to die young (from something besides your standard heart attack). The one unlucky planet in his biological solar system to get reamed by the meteorite. 

He got up and switched on another light. Spoke to it like it was a therapist he'd known for years.

"I need a holiday. Aye. That's what I need. All this work. Same thing day in, day out. There's no rest in it! I mean, no wonder I'm seeing mad shite, eh?" He forced himself to laugh. "I need a holiday, that's all. Someplace nice. Like Spain. No, Hawaii. Someplace _tropical_ with lots of scantily clad women in bikinis offering me margaritas. Or maybe skip all the travel and just focus on the margaritas. Aye, good, exactly. Case closed. Problem solved."

He called Marlene Mackenzie back and told her he was taking the rest of the week off.

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 14th. Midnight.]_

_[The long dark lodge at the edge of Geraldine Oakley's mind is peaceful and just a little mysterious in its stillness. Inside, in the enormous, elegant dining room, we see her sitting across a vast oak table from Charles Weller, everything beautiful and darkly lit by candlelight. In front of them, a tantalizing meal of raw steak. Behind them, a faceless host prepares the next course.]_

 

Oakley could hear something. A faint, indistinct sound coming from the recesses of the great, dark lodge. It was distant at first. Muffled. A sound almost like _howling_. Absorbed in her talks with Weller, she was no more disturbed by it than she would have been by the singing of happy birthday at another table in a restaurant. But when the volume became intrusive, she stood, stalked around the table, and went out of the dining room in search of its source.

In the shadows beyond the dining room her amber eyes saw the primary suite. The décor was in rich leathers and rustic wood elements, classic tartans and driftwood knickknacks. Paintings of lush woodland landscapes neighbored the knot holes on the walls.

Oakley moved quietly past a lush sofa and a pair of bookcases, through an archway into the next room. The remainder of the suite was composed of a den, a kitchenette, and a bedroom and bathroom – all of it showcasing a simple, tasteful aesthetic that suggested the edges of nature softened and preserved for tourist sensitivities. Very grand, especially by deep woods standards. The chairs in the den were slipcovered in herringbone linen. A bearskin rug complimented a stone fireplace set into the side wall. At its hearth the dwindling flames made the shadows jerk and slither on the hardwood floors – crackling, popping, spitting embers. Casting everything in a mellow, varnished glow.

The floorboards creaked under Oakley's feet as she moved through the room. The pleasant serenity of the scene tugged at her. She wanted to bottle the feeling like a firefly and keep it forever.

Around the corner, down a short hallway. Here the howling-sound was recognizable. Not howling at all, but the moans of a couple making love.

A dreamcatcher hung over the door to the bedroom. The sounds of love-making were just beyond it. Oakley thought the voices sounded weirdly familiar now. Mechanically she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. On the other side, a wood-and-iron chandelier dangled from thick oak beams, suspended above a canopy bed dressed with pine-green linens. In the bed, wrapped in fleece and flannel, were a man and a woman. The man was, at first glance, faceless. Oakley looked hard at him, and his eyes appeared one at a time – blue street lamps lit from a great distance. No other traits. Oakley turned her attention to the woman – whom she knew at once as an odd, secondary version of herself. A doppelganger locked and writhing in a passionate embrace with the blue-eyed man.

No shock. Only a dull sense of surprise as she watched them from the doorway, somehow both the audience and a participant.

The image of an answering machine came to mind;

_I'm not here right now but if you'd like to leave a message–_

Suddenly she was shifting on the bed, shifting atop the blue-eyed man, straddling him, her breasts in his face, the soft slip of the sheets around her ankles. The pulsing heat of him thrusting deeply into her. She could feel his breath on her bare skin as he reached up to cup her. Unnaturally calm, she leaned down, moved her hands up, held both of his arms above his head. Saw his face strain towards her, his blue eyes boring into her, his mouth open and panting like a dog. Desperate for a kiss.

The Oakley by the door could hear her heart beating in her ears. She thought randomly of an actress attending a red-carpet premiere, the strangeness of watching your own performance on the big screen and remembering what it was like to film . She thought of outer space, of the emptiness between stars – _There aren't very many of us left_ –  and about the emptiness being filled in her right then. The version of herself that was somehow separate from the version there in the bed.

_I'm not here right now –_

_There aren't very many of us left._

_But if you'd like to leave a message –_

On the bed again. She was breathing in unison with the blue-eyed man. She could feel him moving inside her, sending little shocks of pleasure up her spine, but her expression remained distant, almost clinical. She saw the stranger's head arch back, his long throat white, and with a tired, almost abject indifference she ground her hips down, her breasts bouncing as he bucked, writhed, bucked, convulsed beneath her. And then she was arching too, shivering–

_I'm not here right now –_

– the automatic reaction –

_Not here right now –_

– falling over him, his arms coming forward, coming around her, holding her close, closer, closer with slight shivery movements.

_There aren't very many of us left._

_Find a male._

_There aren't very many of us left._

_Mate._

_I'm not here right now._

_Reproduce._

_There aren't very many of us left. In London that is._

Suddenly she was back by the doorway. Turning away from the stranger in the bed, turning her back on him, and herself. Turning away from them both, just as she had turned away from Charles Weller and the bloody meal at the dining table.

_Good company is difficult to find._

Somber-eyed, she walked in slow motion to a tremendous window and saw the steep slope that fell off to the west of the suite. No forest there. Only a lone, gray wolf howling, singing, serenading the lovers in the bed. She knew the wolf, could place it from previous dreams, just as she knew the deep slice of shimmering ocean behind the wolf. It was her ocean. She could see the red rock clearly from the window. It had almost wholly reappeared, and now jutted from the sand like the claw of some enormous crab, its slime-smoothed sides surrounded by sudsy scuds of foam. 

Oakley stared blankly down at the rock from the window, mesmerized by the way it seemed to swell and glow beneath the moonlight. She tasted mint and blood, she smelled smoke and dust and sweat, she felt arousal flare alive in her. She saw the rock from the window, saw it grow and swell in great, pulsing flashes like a beating heart, saw the shape of her cycle made whole, and all at once the arrow of her mind was moving to point at Ian Doyle – swinging around in the same, sudden, exhilarated way a detective's eyes swing around to land on the face of a guilty suspect.

In that instant, it was like a crime had been solved.

Oakley whirled around and saw, staring back at her from the lodge bed, Ian Doyle – his blue eyes coldly lustrous in the light of the pulsing red rock.

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 15th. Morning.]_

_[The first rays of sun peak in through the slit in the curtains._

_Geraldine Oakley comes awake rigid and perspiring from the dream. Right away_ _she senses the potential for something in its meaning – an option she has, until now, overlooked. Although she isn’t yet sure what this previously invisible-option is, she feels a strange urge to examine it, think it through, reconsider. Such strong, impeding half-clarity leaves her confused about the nature of her friendship with Ian Doyle._ _She hears him snoring next to her in the bed, smells his stale sleep-breath and morning sweat, and is disturbed.]_

 

Some days you wake up changed. This was one for Oakley, she could tell. What she had seen in the dream had caused in her a small tectonic shift. She rolled in the bed, her brain buzzing like a fire alarm, her heart pounding steadily, her body filled with an unnamable, insatiable desire. She had to see him. It was madness to do it so soon after the heat of the dream – when she knew it could really affect her – but she had to make sure that _this_ Ian Doyle, the Ian Doyle under the sheets with her, and the figment from her dream were not one and the same. Then she would be able to relax. 

Doyle lay on his back beside in her the bed. His eyes were shut and he was bathed in foggy, golden light. Goosebumps rose along Oakley's neck and arms as she looked him over. His long, pleasant face was pink and strained and stray curls of gray clung to his forehead. He looked weirdly feverish. And handsome. Strikingly handsome. Far more handsome than his dream-counterpart had. Oakley found herself entertaining the shadow of a thought.  

_How would it be . . . ?_

She let her eyes trail down Doyle's lithe body to the space below his stomach. 

The thought came again, now in its entirety; _How would it be if I just, you know, climbed on? Started riding, like in the dream?_

She was shocked at herself. Where had _that_ come from? 

Half-revolted and half-enticed, she pictured herself acting it out. Reliving the dream in real life –speculatively at first, but growing subtly excited the more she imagined. She saw herself there in the isolated cabin, hidden from anyone who might judge her, pulling the sheet back. She saw herself tugging Ian Doyle’s shorts down, climbing onto him, nice, gentle, quiet, sinking down as he started awake beneath her, and then riding him like a half-crazed cowgirl until she came undone atop him, wet and wild and screaming his name. The scene brought words like _dirty_ and _forbidden_ and _pretty damn tempting_ into her mind – as well as other inappropriate thoughts, one after another. A domino chain of putative questions.. She knew what Doyle's mouth felt like against her neck (thin pink lips, softly warm under the shower head, the tufts of stubble around his chin and below his nose ticklish and scratchy against her skin). But how would that mouth of his feel suckling at her breasts (tender slick against her hardening nipples), or licking up her leg (she could vaguely recall something like that happening)? And what about his narrow tongue? Just how skilled was it, exactly? And what would it feel like flicking inside her, lapping at the burning need between her legs? 

Oakley's throat went suddenly dry. She reached up to cup a hand over her mouth and realized it was open. She snapped it shut and felt something sharp slice the inside of her cheek. Since when had she brought her fangs out? 

Doyle was still snoring beside her. Deeply, almost sensually. Oakley listened to him and heard herself make a sound, too. A tiny, gasping sigh. She checked herself and became aware of a thin wetness coating the inside of her thighs. Of her muscles clenching, wanting to pull something in. That dull but familiar desire to be filled. 

 _You could do it, though,_ a small, sly mental voice put forward. _It would be so easy to just climb on and start riding. No one would ever know._

Oakley felt her face flame. She couldn't really climb on. Could she? Did she really _want_ to? She searched herself and found – to her disbelief – that, yes, she did want to. More intensely than she would have ever expected.

_Just climb on._

Hastily she turned away from Doyle, quivering a little under the sheets. Reaching now for something else to think about, anything at all – she needed to quiet her mind. But it was too late. Her inner projector continued to flash her new images to review. Doyle on top of her, his narrow hips thrusting, his slick cock plunging frantically into her, his eyes shut, muscles tensing, his breaths growing short and labored. She could almost feel it – her legs clenching around him, her body seizing in silent desperation. Could almost hear it – wet skin slapping, the clatter of the bed springs, wild snarling, deteriorating now to a series of deep, guttural grunts, and then Doyle howling, beautiful, sonorous, drawn-out as he spent himself inside her. 

_Like my dream. Just like my dream._

She felt a tingling warmth spreading out from between her legs like liquid fire. 

_So good, yes._

Her hand reached out on its own, itching to touch Doyle. Wanting to run her hands through his hair. Tussle the soft fluff of his pelt. Absently she wondered how it might feel compared to that other patch of hair, the dark thicket between his legs. 

Fingers hovering now. She was close, so close. Close enough to feel the heat from his breath – maddeningly sweet – when the face of Charles Weller popped abruptly into her mind, formidable and disparaging, like a puritan priest.  

 _No. Wait._   

Slowly, Oakley drew her hand back.  

_Just climb on –_

_What would that be?_

_Just climb on –_

_Assault?_

_Just climb on –_

_Rape?_

_Just climb on –_

_Why?_

Oakley squeezed her eyes shut, saw the moon high over the ocean water, heard the waves crashing in her dream and felt the cool sand under her toes. The powerful moon and below it, the great red rock, her monolith, her cycle standing over her – the aching core of her inner wolf, insidiously begging her to crawl on top of an unsuspecting, un- _consenting_ Ian Doyle and fuck him senseless.

_But why? Why now, though? Why do I find him attractive now? Why at all?_

The answer was obvious; her judgement was impaired.

_By what, though?_

She saw the word she was trying to avoid in the peripherals of her mind quite clearly: _Conform_. 

Her pelt, like her parents, wanted her to conform. "Find another wolf, mate, and be happy" they promised in their authoritative, we-know-best-and-always-will voices. It was her birthday, after all, and the moon was fast approaching full. Of course she would be excited, hormonal, confused. She was practically in heat _(Just about the strongest damn heat I've ever been it – what's up with that_ ). But why choose Ian Doyle for a potential mate? He was the only wolf around, yes, but he was also twice her age, and he didn’t exactly look in good condition. She had seen the wrinkles and the flab and the varicose veins firsthand. At the same time, though, there was something about him, about his eyes, his voice, the way he hunted for her, sang to her, fawned over her, complimented her, came out of his comfort zone for her, seemed willing to sacrifice his dignity just to make her happy –  

Oakley shook away the thought. After six long years nature and expectation had again merged into one daunting version of the future. And same as before, Oakley railed against it like a trapped animal. 

“Mate with another wolf?” She hissed, her teeth clenched, her claws growing. “After everything I did to avoid pumping out furry litters and cleaning house? Mate with another wolf, after all the grief I got for going away with Charlie? Fuck no.” 

The sly voice –  the verbal embodiment of her instincts – asked _Why not?_

Oakley hunted for a reason. “It's the principal of the thing. I'm supposed to lie down and take it from Ian just because he's got a tail and claws? Fuck that. This isn't some captive breeding program. This is my life. I decide what happens. Not my pelt, not my parents, not the moon. Me god dammit. Me.”

She heard Doyle’s snorting hitch and saw his eyelids flutter. 

Her first instinct was to retreat. Flight over fight, the way any animal might handle a big, insurmountable problem. She thought, if she could just _outrun_ this sudden new attraction, distance herself from its catalyst, then maybe the attraction its self would dissipate. Starve the fire by withholding the wood – yes, that seemed logical enough. She would put some distance between herself and Doyle. Give herself the day, keep him at an arm’s length until Weller came. Then she would go home, spend this – this _mood_ – on Weller, get it out of her system, and wait for things to return to normal. 

Newly resolved, Oakley swung lightly out of bed, pulled on the green dressing gown, and headed into the bathroom. She spent five minutes in the shower, rinsing quickly, trying not to think about Doyle, her dream, or the moon. 

* * *

 

[ _Ian Doyle wakes looking loose, disheveled and comfortable. He finds the room empty and Oakley's scent all around him. She was only just there. He eyes the indent in her pillow and considers everything he wants say to her this evening. Will say – if everything goes according to plan. Just the thought of going through with it causes a hot little trickle of excitement in his belly, and only a minute amount of fear elsewhere._ ] 

 

Down the hall, Doyle heard the shower faucet turn on and then the sound of running water. He waited until the water stopped before he finally got up and threw on some clothes. He came out of the bedroom in time to see the bathroom door pump open with a flat, hurried bang. Oakley stood on the other side of it, lovely and leggy in a bath-towel, water rolling from her pale skin in beads. She was radiating a certain, special, languorous glow that Doyle couldn't quite place. She glanced casually down one end of the hall, and back down his way for a fast second, nostrils flaring, eyes first dazed and then inexplicably wide. She looked away again so quickly Doyle assumed he had somehow spooked her.

"Morning," he said politely, a little puzzled.

Oakley brushed the hair that was stuck to her cheeks behind her ears and gave him a curt smile. 

"You alright?" 

Oakley tugged the towel tighter around herself, nodded.

"Sleep well?"

Another small nod. Doyle watched her tiptoe further into the hall, her hand tight on the towel, her eyes locked on him.

"I'm going to miss laying with you," Doyle said. "You're very soft. Your fur, I mean. It's very soft."

A third nod, and Oakley hurried down the hall and into her room without so much as a grunt in reply. 

Twenty minutes later, she plonked herself down at the breakfast table with minimal grace and muttered a dry "Hey."

Doyle was over by the counter fiddling with the tea kettle. He turned and saw Oakley at the table, hunched over herself, soggy, dispirited. Strangely somber. If she was wearing make-up, Doyle couldn't see it. Most of her hair was pulled back into a short, loose ponytail, and there was a modesty to her outfit that didn't quite fit. She had cloaked her supple curves in another of Doyle's jumpers, and what must have been the roomiest pair of his pajama pants she could find.  

"Hi there," Doyle said cheerily. "I hope you're hungry. I've made you some breakfast."

He set a plate down in front of her. On it were two poached eggs, a toasted muffin and a peeled satsuma.

"Thanks," muttered Oakley.

"Tea with that?"

"Whatever."

Doyle poured her a fresh mug of earl grey. She didn't drink it.

"Want a different type?" He asked her.

"No," Oakley said, bored, spinning her teaspoon around and around in her fingers. 

Doyle hovered by the table, watching her with a growing feeling of concern. She wouldn’t look at him, and her presence was quieter than usual. Dampened. Determinedly unobtrusive. Almost like she was willing herself to turn invisible. 

“You look like your own ghost,” Doyle told her with a frown.

"Gee, thanks," said Oakley.

"Are you ill?" 

"No."

"Tired?"

She shook her head.

"Homesick?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"So you've said." 

"Come on." Sweetly persuasive – "Talk to me?" 

"Nothing to talk about."

"Are you sure?"

Oakley gave no reply and continued to eat sullenly.

Doyle let out an anxious sigh. He couldn't understand it. She'd been in a decent mood the night before, and now she would barely talk to him.

"Are you upset because we're leaving?" 

A tiny shake of her head.

 _Damn._ He was starting to suspect it had something to do with him personally. 

A pause.

“We’ll come back, you know,” he told her, hoping she wasn’t angry at him. Trying to think of what he might have done or said to annoy her. “I’ve already spoken to Spencer about it. Remember? We’ll be back up here before you know it.”

It took Oakley a second to realize he was talking to her. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sure. Groovy.”

Her voice sounded oddly indifferent, as if the bulk of her thoughts were elsewhere.  

“Are you packed?” asked Doyle.

“Uh-huh” said Oakley, stuffing half a satsuma slice into her mouth.

"Entirely packed? What about the dresses and the other things I got you?"

"You take 'em," she said, chewing.

"Me? But–"

"Chuck'll get mad if I come back with a bunch of new clothes. He'll think I broke the bank."

“Ah. Yes. Right. Any plans for when you get back?”

Oakley swallowed and said gruffly, “Work."

“Work and Spencer’s show, you mean? That is, you're still coming, aren't you?” No answer. She wasn’t interested. He answered for her. “What am I saying. Of course you’re still coming. Have you ever been to an art show before, Gerry?”

Oakley grunted what sounded like a “No”. 

Doyle's frown deepened. He didn't care for this new aloofness. He didn't want to call attention to it, but in the end he felt he had to. He sat down at the table and fixed Oakley with a look that was speculative but benign, for him. 

"Gerry, are you _sure_ everything's okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's only that you're acting . . . strangely."

Flat, uncaring – "Am I?"

"Yes, you are. Is it something to do with the moon? Is it something to do with _me_?"

For a second Oakley looked pinker than usual around the cheeks. She grimaced and it was gone.

"Have you reached your limit with me?" Doyle asked her, only half-casual. "Or is it just another of your mood swings?"

Oakley kept chewing.

Doyle tried to think. "Is it to do with your birthday?"

"It isn't that."

"Would you tell me if it was?"

Again, no answer.

"Don't worry about missing your birthday," Doyle went on. "I've got a great dinner planned, and a surprise as well. You'll love me- _it_ , you'll love _it,_ trust me."

"Uhuh."

Tentatively he reached across the table to pat Oakley's hand. She practically choked on the satsuma slice.

"What are you doing?" She said sharply, flinching away.

Doyle was stunned. "I just – I wanted to–"

"I need a cigarette," she snapped. "Go get me one."

Slowly, Doyle retracted his hand. He looked at Oakley for a long minute before he finally left the table. He returned a with a single cigarette and the lighter she'd bought for him. Stooping over her, he gave her the cigarette. She reached warily for the lighter.

"Allow me?" Doyle offered, brandishing the flame.

Oakley went rigidly stiff, as though she didn’t really want to touch him, or for him to touch her. Doyle took the cue and drew back, confused and a little hurt. 

"Gerry, I–"

"My tea's getting cold," she said, monotone. "Pour me a fresh cup."

Unsure of what else to do, Doyle set the lighter down by Oakley's plate and hurried over to the kettle with her mug. While he busied himself with the tea-bag Oakley quickly lit her cigarette and began to puff rapidly. In time the kettle whistled and Doyle presented her with a new mug of tea. She peered grimly across the cigarette flame at his hands.

"Just set it there. Thanks. You can sit down now, you know." 

When he was seated again she blew out a long stream of smoke and held the cigarette out to him.

“Here.”    

Doyle eyed her for a moment before collecting the cigarette. Bravely, he took not one but four long, slow drags without coughing. Oakley's face scrunched into an expression of resentful disappointment.

“Ta very much,” Doyle said, handing the cigarette back to her.  

Oakley sucked on it for a few seconds, arranging her lips just where his had been. Then her mouth curled up scornfully. She blew a fast puff of smoke into his face. Finally, Doyle turned away from her to cough. 

When he could speak again, he told her "I meant it – about your birthday. I really do have a surprise for you"

Oakley's eyes narrowed. "Yeah?" She took a final drag off her cigarette and stubbed it violently on the edge of her breakfast plate. "Gonna sing me another song, there, Bowie?"

"No, no," he said quickly. "I mean, not unless you want me to."

A beat.

Oakley said "No, I don't want you to."

"Oh?" He smiled at her. "Was I that dreadful?"

A fraction of a pause, like she was considering. "I guess not."

"Oh . . ." Not the answer he'd been expecting. "Erm, well, at any rate, it's not another song. But I promise you, you'll love it."

More silence.

Oakley was not put out when Doyle evnetually told her he was going into town by himself for the afternoon to shop for her. In fact, she seemed almost relieved to be rid of him. He suggested she might like to sleep while he was away – a polite way of saying _Pull yourself out of this funk because it’s worrying me._

In the hallway he left her standing off to the side by the door while he buttoned up his coat. She watched him quietly with her round, dark eyes – the first time she had looked at him all morning. At the door the hug she gave him was stiff and restrained.

"How does a werewolf eat an elephant?" Doyle asked her as he stepped out onto the porch.

Oakley kept quiet until the punchline.

"One bite at a time," said Doyle, making one last effort to cheer her up.

Oakley didn't laugh. She didn't even chuckle. All she did was look at him. She didn’t say it out loud, but Doyle could read it clearly in her expression – she wanted to be left alone. He went without another word, secretly hoping that she would be herself again when he got back.

* * *

 

_[Geraldine Oakley doesn't realize how much tension she's managed to build up in the few short minutes she’s been sharing the cabin with Ian Doyle until he finally leaves. She comes away from the front door and rests her eyes for a moment in the dim hallway. Her shoulders slump. She is restive, uneasy, implacably morose. She needs a cigarette. With a weary groan, she retreats to the kitchen.]_

 

Brittle tap-tap-tap of the sink faucet dripping. Steam from the kettle collecting on the windowpane in thin beads.

Oakley rummaged through the pack of cigarettes, fished one out, and lit it. She smoked cleanly and rapidly for five minutes strait, never pausing to enjoy the taste or the pleasant, light-headed sensation the smoke brought on. Her goal was to calm her nerves, and forget about that awful business upstairs. 

“You’re fine," she told herself, pacing harried circles around the kitchen table. "Everything’s fine. He's gone now, and that's fine. You dreamt about him, and that’s fine. Hell, it had to happen eventually. Right? I mean, consider how much time you’ve spent together. Dreaming about him was inevitable.” 

She paused to stub out her cigarette and light a new one. 

“Okay, _sure_ , it _could’ve_ been a nice, pleasant, inoffensive dream about fishing or hunting or some other harmless activity,” she went on, sucking on the cigarette for emphasis. “But it wasn’t. It was a sex dream, and that’s _fine_." 

She grinned broadly. 

"You had a sex dream about Ian and it doesn’t mean a damn thing. You could have conjured up a hundred different men for that dream. Charlie, some random television star, one of those burly-looking cowboys from the cigarette posters in the tube.”

She forced herself to laugh.

“So your mental roulette spinner landed on your fifty-something-year-old friend. So what? It’s not some sign that you’ve got a – a secret, subconscious crush on him or whatever. That’d be _ridiculous_! No, it’s coincidence that you dreamt about him. That’s what it is. Coincidence, and the moon screwing with your hormones. And your heat cycle acting up.”

She took another drag off the cigarette and said confidently; “You were horny, he was there. You dreamt about him. One plus two equals three. The end. Case closed.”

She stopped pacing and leaned against the kitchen counter. The ticking of the kitchen clock was very loud. She let her eyes close and watched the little dots dance behind her eyelids for a moment. The sound of Doyle's snoring came back to her, along with the memory of her own, hormone-fueled indiscretion. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and block it out, but it was coming from inside her own head.

"Stop now. Stop focusing on it. You ought to be doing something productive, anyway."

She flicked the cigarette into the sink, combed out her hair with her fingers, and got to work on the kitchen. She washed the dishes, swept the floor, and wiped down the counter – even though it didn’t really need it. Then she sat blankly down at the table and, with her head down, tried again to think of nothing. For a while she was successful. But then a new thought popped into her mind.

What happened once Doyle got back from running his errands? 

Breakfast had been mostly silent and blissfully quick – for that Oakley was thankful – but what happened when it came time for dinner? Trying to picture it was like fiddling with the rabbit-ears of some ancient, broken television-set. No matter what Oakley did, all she got was tired, fuzzy static.

Outside the kitchen window a mass of great black thunderheads were making their way over the lake toward the cabin. Lightning flashed purple-pink inside them. Oakley slumped back in her seat and put a hand to her forehead. She could feel the pulse of a headache coming on.

"He'll be back soon . . ." Whispered Oakley. Unsure of whether or not to dread his return, or anticipate it. "He'll be back soon and when he gets here you're going to have to start up that cold shtick again and god, that's going to _kill_ him. Did you see his face when he left? God . . ."

For a moment the ticking of the clock seemed to fall away, and then she was surrounded by an awful, empty silence. Something so lonely and jarring it was as though gravity had dislodged her and flung her into some sort of terrible, directionless freefall. Reeling, she groped for something, anything – one nice thought to latch on to – and came up empty handed.

"He'll be back soon," Oakley muttered, massaging her temples absently in time with the rhythmic beat of her heart. "He'll be back soon and – no, no – later _._ Focus on right now."

Eventually the ticking came back, and Oakley sat on her own in the empty kitchen, nursing her disquiet until finally she could no longer stand it.

She made herself some tea and went into the study to call Charles Weller. The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity before it finally clicked over to voicemail.

"Hello, this is Charles Weller. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you leave me a message with your name and –"

Oakley quietly placed the receiver back in its cradle. Next she tried calling Margie Hart. She felt she had to talk to another woman, someone who might be able to make sense of everything, but when she had Hart on the line she could think of nothing to say, and Hart was too busy with work to care. Oakley hung up and went into the sitting room. She sat on the settee with one of Spencer Hirsch’s enormous coffee table art-books open on her lap, facing the window, and tried to read. But an antsy feeling had come over her following the phone calls, and the printed words refused to register on her mind. She put the book back in the study, slipped on her pelt and went outside. It would be better, healthier both mentally and physically, to get outside – take a nice long walk down by the lake.

In the back garden she stood and let the cool, late-morning breeze ruffle the fur on her neck and her ears. Her nose raised to the sky, breathing in the damp smell of pine and dirt and the promise of autumn to come. 

 _All those beautiful reds and yellows,_ she thought miserably. _And you'll be down in the city, missing it._

She heard Doyle's voice again in her head, happily reminding her that they would come back again soon. After all, the cabin was theirs whenever she wanted.

_Do you even still want it, though? Could you last another week up here with him?_

_No_ , thought Oakley, her wide ears drooping. _If I came back to this place with him, he would drive me crazy._

_Which kind of crazy, though?_

Just then she wasn't sure. 

Above her, the wind whistled angrily. She saw the same eerie thunderclouds, flashing bright-purple over the dark stretch of field. Soon it would start to rain.

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 15th. Late Morning.]_

_[Marlene Mackenzie is in the bathroom fixing her hair when the telephone rings in the bedroom. A click, followed by the hum of an answering machine, and then a weary, age-worn voice. It’s Edward Gibson, telling her he won’t be in again today. Personal reasons. He doesn’t go into detail.]_

Ed Gibson slipped his mobile phone back into his pant pocket, and looked at the empty bed across from him. He stared until the space his wife once occupied assumed a bent and twisted shape filled with dark and swarming shadows. He did not know it, but right then he was teetering on the verge of obsession.

For the past three nights, he had seen the dog-woman in his sleep, in the brilliant fragments of his imagination; altered and tall, long-faced and body covered in hair, she poised over him in a mantis stance, snarling. He’d spent the week haunting his own house while the dog-woman haunted him. Long hours of day-time television and dinners meals consisting of microwave dinners and bad Chinese delivery. Five minutes after he got off the phone with Marlene Mackenzie's answering machine, he decided he simply _had_ to get out of the house. Otherwise, he would porbably merge with his own carpet and become a mushroom.

At noon Gibson drove his Nova to the _Bonny Owl_ pub, where he had several pints to ease his mind. Around about three o'clock he considered calling his estranged wife, but all he could think of to say was “I’m pretty sure you’ve given me schizophrenia, Gillian”, to which she prompt hung up. 

He played a gloomy game of pool with some farmers and a clerk from the post office up the road, and looked over the crowd. All the listless, sunken-eyed faces of his neighbors and chums. He wondered what he looked like to them. Not crazy, at least. Or so he hoped.

Seeking solitude from the crowd and his thoughts, Gibson exiled himself to a booth at the back of the pub and went on drinking. He was on his fifth pint when Ian Doyle came into the pub. Gibson did not see Doyle enter, but was alerted to his presence by a strange prickling of the hairs on his neck. An almost clairvoyant sixth sense that caused him to draw in a sharp breath and sober instantly. His head swiveled, searching for the cause of this sudden ill feeling, and his eyes – furtively glancing the place by the front door – landed squarely on Doyle, picking him out of a crowd of much younger, stouter men on their way over to the bar. 

Doyle was wearing a brown Savile Row suit with subtle glints of green and gold running through the weave that put Gibson's local off-the-rack job to shame. For whatever reason, the scene made Gibson think of a great white shark swimming with – not after – a school of oblivious tuna. 

He watched Doyle stalk up to the bar, tall and angular, and interpose himself between two overweight patrons, and then flag down the bartender.  

Gibson started to get up, intending to cross the bar to Doyle and strike up a conversation with him.

_Don't know how to tell you this, Mr. Doyle, but that dog of yours is really a woman! No – more like – Excuse me, Mr. Doyle, but you never paid your bill last Monday, and we need to get a cone on that dog of yours before she tries to eat her stitches out._

But a random, deep-seeded feeling of unease made Gibson hesitate. He looked at Doyle again, less fleetingly, and saw there was something different about him now. The older man's eyebrows were thick enough to meet in the middle, and his teeth seemed longer. In the stark light of the bar he looked gaunt and misshapen and decidedly –    

_Canine?_

_No. Couldn't be. Could it . . . ?_

Doyle's attention was still on the bartender, but then he glanced sharply to his left at one of the other patrons – his nostrils flaring. A strange look came on to his face. He seemed to be smiling and scowling at the same time, and his hands were clenching and unclenching. Gibson thought the fingernails looked weirdly long. He watched Doyle march abruptly over to the opposite end of the bar, shouldering by several tipsy patrons. One of them – Lawrence Lloyd, a bullish, heavyset man – approached Doyle angrily, clearly offended by the slight. Gibson saw them exchange words, saw Lloyd sniff, as if that would help confirm his weighty position, and make what could only have been a very off-color remark to Doyle. Doyle ignored Lloyd and shoved past hard enough to make Lloyd lose his footing. It was then that Gibson realized he was making his way over to the short, redheaded man with the piggish nose. Gibson squinted across the bar, trying to see who it was. Recognition and memory struck in unison.

_Oh Christ that's Charlie Orton one of the two I mentioned last night one of the two who might have set that wire trap._

Gibson swallowed tightly and watched Doyle with apprehension. The other man’s lip had pinched into a sinister sneer. He was visibly shaking. The sight reminded Gibson of the way a clogged pipe looks right before the water pressure finally causes it to burst. He thought–   

_Mr. Ian Doyle, owner of the dog-faced woman, is going to start on old Charlie Orton._

And then, with a mixture of anticipation and dread – _There's going to be a fight._

The ale in Gibson’s stomach sloshed uneasily. Not knowing what else to do, he pretended to read his drinks-menu. 

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 15th. Early Afternoon.]_

_[Oakley swings around the cabin with haste and passes out of sight behind a belt of timber trees. She runs with her head level and her ears pricked, letting the solitude of the forest work through her fur and calm her down. Half an hour later she reappears at the lakeshore near the cabin._ _There she sheds her pelt and sits on the pebble beach, hugging her knees and looking far off at a bird sailing high above the water. She thinks it might be a falcon.]_

 

Oakley watched the dark shape in the sky circle for a while, feeling weirdly unsettled. She wondered where Doyle was, what was taking him so long. He'd been gone well over an hour now. Maybe there was a line at the grocery store.

_Is he grocery shopping? Must be. What else could take him so long?_

Maybe he already had the groceries. Maybe the storm had already broken over the high-street, and he was huddled under the awning of some store, waiting for the rain to let up before he chanced heading back to her. Either way, Oakley found herself wishing he was there with her now. She wanted to be soothed, reassured, touched. 

_No, stop it. That’s your hormones talking._

She saw the falcon veer away and disappear beyond the woods. The wind was picking up. The tree branches bent and flailed like a monster-movie heroine screaming in abject terror. All at once Oakley felt sharp. Panicky. Like she was drowning in an intense wave of bad dejavu. But that wasn't what it was. Not really. This feeling – this intense, primal _knowing_ – was stronger and more vivid than dejavu. This was her intuition talking to her, sensing and fretting about something she couldn't quite describe. The feeling was both prophetic, and instinctual. The same, ugly shiver sailors felt whenever tall waves loomed on the ocean horizon. 

She had no idea _why_ she felt the way she did. She had been fine only minutes before. She tried to tell herself it was just her animal reaction to the storm closing in, but even then, why should she feel rattled by a rainstorm? It was only a little rain, the same rain she suffered all the time back in the city, the same rain she'd suffered nearly half the week here in the woods. Really, there was no reason to think the world was coming to an end. 

But without Doyle there to ease her worry and tell her she was being daft – 

 _He’s going to get wet_ , Oakley realized with sudden alarm. _He’s going to get drenched._

_Stop it._

_He’s got no umbrella, no raincoat. Jesus, he’s so old. What if he gets sick?_

_You're doing it again._

_What if he’s walking along the high-street and a car skids on the wet road and plows into him? What if he doesn’t come back? What if I never see him again!_

_Your hormones are getting the better of you._

Oakley sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady herself.

“He'll come back," she said aloud. She meant to say it sternly, but her voice quivered a little. “Any minute now, he’ll come back and–”

There was a sudden flash of white, followed by a jolting clap of thunder. The branches of the trees that lined the lakeside stopped swaying in the wind. The air went utterly still. Oakley looked rapidly around, her headache all at once throbbing, her awful sense of premonition rising to a shrill pitch in her mind.  

She spoke more firmly this time – half scolding herself, half trying to convince. "Aaaaaany minute now."  

The sky lit up, fierce and sudden. Now the tree branches were flapping violently in the newly resurrected wind. Without thinking Oakley took off at a dash for the cabin, her mind screaming at her to find shelter. She reached the cabin just as the storm broke. A hard gust of wind slammed against the porch door hard enough to close it. For a second time, everything went suddenly quiet and still. Oakley froze just inside the hallway with her hand resting on the doorknob, waiting in terrified silence. Holding her breath. The feeling of dread swelling in her.  

_Ian where are you I want you –_

Outside there was another blinding flash of lightning, and then instant, thunderous downpour.    

Moving purposefully slow _(Stay calm everything's fine you're safe you're safe_ ) _,_ Oakley went to the sitting room window and wiped a hand across the rain-splattered glass, rubbing away the sheen of condensation that had built up there. She leaned forward to peer out into the rainy dark, in the direction of the driveway – now just a dim slice of gravel in the mist. She expected to see Doyle's thin shadow sprinting madly across the yard in the whipping rain, but he was nowhere to be seen. Despite her better judgement, Oakley found herself missing him. She hoped he was safe and dry – wherever he was. 

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 15th. Afternoon.]_

[ _Charlie Orton is having an easy, carefree afternoon, right up until a finger taps his shoulder. The finger doing the tapping is light enough to be intrusive, but hard enough to crack Orton's carefree mood like a sledgehammer against lime._ ]

 

"Excuse me," said a polite, but dangerously low, voice. "Would you happen to be Charlie Orton?" 

Orton turned around on the barstool expecting to see someone small, stringy – a man who matched the nasally brogue that had addressed him. Instead, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered old man looming over him like an owl eyeing up a mouse.    

"Aye, Charlie Orton, that's me," said Orton at last. 

The old man’s mouth twisted into a fiendish smirk. He produced from his pocket a thin strand of silver metal – what looked like a tangled wire snare that had been tied and then cut with a pair of pliers – and held it up to Orton.  

"And would this happen to be your fox-snare, Mr. Orton?" Asked the old man. 

Orton looked surprised. "Here, how'd you get a hold of that, then?" 

The old man’s smirk darkened substantially. 

"I found it," he replied in a soft, excited growl. "It was wrapped around my dog's ankle." 

Orton gaped dumbly at him. "Eh?" 

The old man slammed the wire down on the bar top hard enough to bring a hush over some of the nearby patrons. Still smirking, he advanced on Orton until they were practical touching noses, and hissed "Your snare broke my dog's ankle." 

Orton's eyes narrowed in attempted comprehension, a slight flicker of discomfort in them. Then he cackled, sending out a gust of stale beer-breath into the old man’s face. 

"Piss off, ye daft fucker," he belched with drowsy dismissal. 

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 15th. Afternoon.]_

_[Oakley exists alone in the cabin. She smokes her cigarettes, listens to the steady sound of the rain. Waits patiently for the storm to let up, and Doyle to return.]_

 

The following hour passed in curiously jerky time for Oakley. The minutes both dragged and flew. Eventually she decided she had to do something else. She had to occupy herself. She was starting to feel stir-crazy again. 

_What, though? What can you do? There's nothing else to clean. Nothing good to read. No TV to watch._

The answer came on reflex.

_Eat._

Oakley fixed herself a sandwich for lunch, ate only half of it, and shuffled through the rest of the books in the study without finding one she wanted to read.

At a quarter to two, she tried Weller again. This time he picked up.

"Hello?"

Words tumbled out of Oakley in an unexpected rush. "Charlie, hey, I'm sorry I haven't called you, you're probably pissed, but I'm calling you now because I had to hear your voice. You're coming up today, right?" 

"Yes, I–" 

"When are you leaving?" 

"Well, I–" 

"I need to see you. Get here fast, okay? I – I – I don't feel right." 

A beat of silence. When Weller next spoke he sounded both agitated and mildly suspicious. "What do you mean, _you don't feel right?_ " 

"I just don't feel right." 

"Is it your ankle?" 

"No." 

"Is it your _friend_?" 

She stiffened – _Could he know? Impossible. Should you tell him?_

Her mind stalled. If she told him, he would throw on his psycho-analysis hat, pick her dream apart and draw every wrong conclusion there was. 

"I – I can't explain it, Charlie," said Oakley at last. 

"Try." 

She struggled to call up the right amount of vagueness. "Picture a room full of electronics. Equipment, like, NASA mission control stuff or something. Now picture the transmitter getting hit by lightning, and all that equipment just goes haywire. Beeping, buzzing, spitting static and all that shit. Behaving the wrong way. That's how I feel right now. Like a big fat power surge or – or something. I don't know. Can you just come up here already? It's never been this bad before and–" 

"You do understand that I can't just hop up there willy-nilly, don't you? It's a _ten hour drive_ , Geraldine," Weller said testily. 

"Yes, I know. Just get here, alright? I really need to see you."

"Calm down, I'll be there."

"I love you," said Oakley, trying to convince herself and reassure Weller all at the same time.

"I love you too," said Weller. "Go relax. Try and get a hold of yourself."

"I'll try."

"Good girl. See you soon."

She listened to the dial tone long after Weller had hung up. Unconsciously she went back to the window and began looking up the road for Doyle again. This time she imagined him walking into the yard with a newly-purchased umbrella and a nice pair of inexpensive Wellingtons. She pictured running out to meet him, hugging him enthusiastically, kissing him hello.

She caught herself –

_Just STOP._

She crossed swiftly back to the kitchen, wishing she could lift the rug of her mind and sweep Doyle and the rest of her cluttered, hormone-addled thoughts under it. She remembered his sweetness at breakfast, the speed with which he cooked for her and filled her mug. Now there was only the leftover smell of eggs and the same ceaseless ticking of the clock by the refrigerator.

At the counter Oakley lit a fresh cigarette, smoked it halfway down, crushed it out and, after much deliberation, decided to take Doyle's advice and have a nap.

* * *

 

_[Across the bar, Gibson sees Doyle glare at Orton with sudden smoking rage. He feels the hairs on his neck prickle with sudden premonition._

_The shit, he realizes, is about to go down.]_

 

The old man wasn’t leaving. 

“Oi,” said Orton, irritated now. “Hear me, ye deaf old geezer? I said piss off.”

The old man took a slow, purposeful, stalking half-step back and squared his shoulders, as if in challenge.

Orton’s patience vanished. He started to get up, drink in his hand, annoyance clear on his face. He would make the old man leave, and if the old man _wouldn't_ leave, then he would throw his drink in the old man's ugly, beakish nose. And if _that_ didn’t work, then he would – 

With sudden, surprising speed the old man snatched firm hold of Orton’s free hand and dragged him back down onto the barstool.

"Sit!” The old man shrieked with vicious disdain.  

Orton reeled back in shock. At the same time, the noise from the pub died away as almost all of the other patrons, startled by the outburst, turned to gawk at the developing scene.     

 

_[Gibson sees Ian Doyle’s hand – more a vulture’s talon now than a hand – descend on Orton’s chubby wrist and shove him back down onto the barstool. Doyle’s face then, pressing toward Orton’s neck. Hissing sharp, threatening whispers into his paper-pale ear. The overall effect is frighteningly paranoid. Gibson wishes he could hear what Doyle is saying. Probably something about fox-snares, he guesses. Whatever it is, it's enough to make Orton's face turn white.]_

 

"It _is_ your snare, Mr. Orton. I can tell," said the old man. Not letting go of Orton’s hand. Still smiling. 

Orton thought the smile had grown absurdly wide within the last few seconds. Almost too wide, as if the old man were trying to show as large a hint of teeth as he could without actually snarling. 

“Would you like to know how I can tell it’s your snare, Mr. Orton?” Asked the old man.

Orton watched with round, bewildered eyes as the old man tapped his left nostril for emphasis and, tittering like a crazed person, said "I could smell it on you. I could smell it as soon as I stepped inside of this place." Then he stuck his nose at Orton and sniffed like some sort of perverse diner in a restaurant. "Ah," he breathed. "The same exact stink. Rotten meat."

“You’re off you’re fucking head, mate,” said Orton, with much less confidence than he’d intended to. He set down his drink firmly on the bar – a subtle attempt to recapture that confidence. “You don’t let go of me, I’m going to break yer feeble fucking face. Savvy?”

The old man’s eyes flashed like fire. Orton understood all too late that antagonizing him had been a mistake. The old man swung his whole arm into the blow. The sound of his wrinkled palm against Orton's face was flat and frighteningly loud, like the crack of a belt being snapped in the air. Orton staggered back a half step, wide-eyed, fat mouth open in a kind of half-shocked, half-offended O-shape. His hand formed a fist before he could help himself.

“Daft old sod!” 

The old man dodged the punch Orton threw with fluid grace, and squeezed Orton’s other palm angrily.

Orton’s mouth twisted into a pain-filled wince. He cried out with indignant anger – “Harry, get this cunt offa me!”

Without warning a hand had the old man roughly by the nape of the neck. One of Charlie Orton’s cronies – Harry Haddon, six foot one, weighing in around eighteen stone – had finally stepped into action, and was now dragging the old man back, away from Orton. The old man’s feet fell out from under him, and he kicked up in surprise like a spooked dog. His boot sent one of the bar stools flying. In the commotion his grip loosened, and Orton was able to wrench his flabby hand back and flee haphazardly to the other side of the room.   

 

_[Gibson catches just a flicker of it, just a frightening glimpse of Ian Doyle’s face changing into something distinctly canine. The edge of something glimmers in his mind at that. A memory – old enough to be mistaken for a fever dream – of himself as a pudgy twelve-year-old sitting cross-legged in front of his mum’s big wood-paneled television set, watching an old Oliver Reed film on late-night cable. Something about it is significant. But before he can do more than start to reach for that significance –_

_It’s connected to this to Ian Doyle to the dog-woman last night I KNOW it is but HOW?_

_– Doyle whirls, takes Harry Haddon by the forearms and, in a kind of dancing throw, sends him spinning across the bar into the pool table. Haddon drops to the sticky floor holding his gut, the wind knocked out of him. There is nothing but utter silence for a long and stricken moment.]_

 

Seconds flew by. The crowd of bar patrons stood there gawking. Waiting.

Before Orton could recover enough to speak, there was a fast blur of movement, and then the old man was lunging for him, his solid frame twisting with the grace of someone whose body remembered being quick and slender long ago. Across the room in one, two impossibly fast steps. His hands, hooked into shaking claws, snagged roughly in Orton’s shirt collar. Orton tried desperately to bat the clawed hands away and scurry free, but they held him rooted in place with impossible strength.  

“Get off me,” Orton tried in a choking sputter. "Get off me or I'll–" 

“Shut up,” hissed the old man.

Orton’s mouth flapped lamely, but no words came out. He felt suddenly small, insignificant, like a fly caught in the clutches of a praying mantis. The old man pinned him against wall and then lifted him until he was standing tip-toed, almost dangling by his shirt. In the back of his mind Orton wondered how someone so old could be so strong. Beginning to panic, he skimmed the onlookers out of the corner of his eye. None of them moved to intervene. Even his friends seemed too scared to help him now. He tried again to squirm free, but the old man wouldn’t let go. 

Orton went to holler – “Christ someone call the police he’s crazy can’t you see he’s crazy!” – and was shaken like a rag doll. 

 

_[Gibson sees Ian Doyle shake Charlie Orton like it is nothing at all. Sees a sudden oily sheen of fear come onto Orton's face. Sees Orton stop struggling and take on a waxy, doll-like stiffness. Without waiting for reason to interfere, Gibson pulls his mobile phone out of his pant pocket, raises it discreetly up at Orton and Doyle, and steals a quick picture. What the camera captures is incredible.]_

  

Slowly, the bartender – who had broken up a hundred drunken rows in his time – began to reach below the bar. For a split second Charlie Orton felt relief. The bartender would come up with a good, sturdy cricket bat in his hand, or maybe a rifle, and – 

The old man shot the bartender a look that was both warning and threat. The bartender froze for the first time in his thirty-year-long sud-slinging career, and backed away from the bar as a man might back away from a dog he knew meant to bite. 

The old man returned his attention to Orton.

“Tell them,” the old man sneered, scowling into Orton’s horrified face. “Come on, they’re all looking. Tell them. Tell them what you do. Tell them how you set illegal traps and break the ankles of poor innocent wol– _dogs_. Tell them!” 

 

_[Orton is cowering now. Visibly cowering. Gibson thinks he looks ready to wet himself. He listens as Orton confesses his secret hobby of illegally trapping and killing foxes with snares, and feels a strange sense of elation, and also regret. Justice has been served, but he wishes he’d been the one to serve it._

_At the front of the pub, Orton is apologizing now, quietly, in a voice tinged with fear. Gibson sees the knuckles in Doyle’s hands relax.]_

 

Orton ducked sharply away from the old man, expecting him to go for his collar again. But the old man simply stared at him, his claw-like hand still hanging in the air where Orton’s neck had been. After a minute the old man tossed the ruined snare-wire at Orton and spat out a growling threat.

“If you ever set another snare in that forest, I will find you, and rip your fucking throat out with my bare fucking teeth. Understand?”     

Orton gave a fast nod. 

"Good," said the old man.

Orton put his hand up to the back of his neck where the shirt collar had dug into the muscle and rubbed it slowly back and forth. His cheeks were bright red and his forehead was slick with seat. He could hear some of the patrons sniggering at him now. In another minute proper laughter would start up, he was sure. Not wanting to hear it, Orton crossed the room stiffly, paused by the door as if to say something, thought better of it, then left with a barely restrained door-slam. 

The old man straightened before the crowd of drunks, regarded them with hostile, shielded eyes, turned, and swept briskly back to the bar to order a glass of whiskey.  

* * *

 

 _[A turnt-up nose, delicately pale, cranes up to the cabin ceiling._ _The nose sniffs only once, but long, taking in a faint, pleasant aroma of wolf, and a lot of damp air._

_The nose belongs to Geraldine Oakley. She stands in the doorway of Ian Doyle's bedroom until her head is quiet and still. Another deep breath draws in the intoxicating scent of Doyle's musk. She licks her lips. It would be better to sleep in the other room. Smarter. Oakley looks remotely down the hall at the gray, uninviting door of her own cabin bedroom. It seems vastly empty to her. She can feel its silence like a draft._

_After a long minute, she turns back toward Doyle's bed. Despite her head's concerns, her feet carry her into his room.]_

 

Outside, the rain came down in huge, gouting sheets. Fat drops of water fell heavy on the bedroom window. 

For a fast second Oakley was overcome by the urge to crawl under the bed, rather than onto it. She waited for the feeling to pass and then lay down on the bed. She would go to sleep and it would help, she thought, putting a pillow under her neck and another one behind her head. She would go to sleep and wake up better rested, and maybe then she would be able to think about Ian Doyle and her recent feelings toward him with a little more equanimity. 

 _Falling asleep is only a short-term solution, you know,_ her sly, interior voice pointed out.

"I know," said Oakley, adjusting the pillows. "But it's either go to sleep or stay up and keep thinking about it. And I don't want to think about it anymore."

_He'll be around when you wake up._

"Yeah, well, right now he's gone. That's G-O-N-E _gone_. And with any luck, he'll stay gone for as long as it takes to get some damn piece of mind."

_And if you dream about him? How peaceful will your mind be then, hmm?_

This last question came with the same, nagging concern of a mother trying to explain to her inexperienced daughter that swimming in the deep end of the pool was most likely an _unwise_ idea.

"Fuck it," said Oakley stubbornly, rolling onto her back. She put one arm over her eyes, and in time dozed off. 

* * *

 

_[Monday, September 15th. Late Afternoon.]_

_[Gradually, noise returns to the Bonny Owl pub. Soft murmurs at first, mostly to do with what’s just happened, then evolving into the familiar ruckus of conversations about football games, nagging wives, everyday life.]_

 

Gibson looked at Ian Doyle for a long time before he finally reviewed the picture on his phone. What he saw was not Ian Doyle's face, but rather, the smeary, Picasso-face of something else. A face that looked like a clay sculpture that had collapsed in the kiln, but somehow unmistakable for all that. This monstrous, indefinable shape had usurped Doyle’s place on the screen, and was frozen mid-snarl, it’s eyes full of ominous intent. 

As if in response, the face of the dog-woman flashed into Gibson’s mind. A reminder. The first domino stood up in a chain. Later, Gibson would reflect that seeing Doyle in the pub and comparing him with the image of the dog-faced woman had, in some inexplicable way, been the thing to push that first domino over – the thing that inevitably led him down the chain to one of the most incredible, irrational conclusions his brain had ever jumped to.

_Oliver Reed stars in – cue dramatic music – The Curse of the Werewolf!_

Gibson glanced back up at Doyle, suddenly sure he was imagining the whole thing, that reality would snap back into place like a released elastic as soon as Doyle took another swig of his whiskey. Only instead, Doyle raked off his sunglasses, revealing a set of fierce, yellow eyes. The monster was dull but clearly visible behind them.     

 _Oh my god it’s real_ , Gibson thought at once. _That man is a werewolf. The woman who was with him the other is a werewolf too. Jesus H. Christ werewolves_ ** _exist_** _._

Rationality, or a combination of denial and rationality, fell on him like an anvil. He took several calming breaths and, wanting a second opinion ( _How very like a doctor, ehem, excuse me, veterinarian_ ), he sent the picture of Doyle and Orton to his friend, Mark Macmillan, with a short message.   

_Need to know ASAP: what do you see? – EG_

The reply: _Is this a joke? –MM_

_No joke just tell me what you see. –EG_

_Charlie-O and some dog looking thing. Dunno. Too blurry tbh –MM_

Gibson felt a sudden, electrifying surge of happiness shoot through him. It really _was_ real. He had just taken a picture of a real, live werewolf. 

He sent Macmillan one last message: _If you’re not at the Bonny Owl, get here. NOW. – EG_

Then he uttered a strangled laugh and stumbled out of his seat. Several men standing by the bar turned to stare as he battered through the crowd and ran into the restroom, elbowing pint glasses and leaving a trail of sticky beer in blotches across the floor.      

Gibson did not check to make sure the rest of the stalls were empty. He fled unceremoniously to the handicapped stall, kicked open the door, threw himself at the toilet and heaved up his stomach’s contents into the bowl in one, long, groaning retch. Afterward, Gibson moved to one of the sinks and put his hand on the old, brass faucet. The sound of running water filled the bathroom. Gibson promptly splashed some of it in his face. In the sink mirror his skin looked gray under the wavering lamplight. His hands were trembling from the exhilaration of it _(werewolves are real werewolves are real_ ) _,_ and he felt like he was sleepwalking. He kept expecting the walls to bleed away and for daylight – morning, reality – to filter back into his field of vision.      

It never happened. For that he was both excited and terrified. 

A dozen thoughts passed through his head rapid-fire:

_Werewolves are real. Established. Ian Doyle is a werewolf. Also established. Ian Doyle’s dog – Daughter? She did have an American accent, so adopted-daughter maybe  – is a werewolf, too. All of that's established. What else, what else? Ian Doyle just scared the shit out of Charlie Orton, Harry Haddon, and everybody else in this pub. Werewolves are bloody scary. Werewolves are bloody strong. Werewolves are bloody brilliant. Holy Mary mother of fuck!_

Gibson suddenly found himself the star of his very own Hammer film. He grinned. Something amazing had finally happened to him. And, alright, so it was werewolves and not a whirlwind romance with a beautiful French actress, or a chest full of Spanish gold buried in his backyard. Not what he'd expected, or even really wished for, but he would take it all the same. Anything was better for Gibson than the demoralizing idleness in which he lived.  

Just then Gibson heard the restroom door wheeze open on its pneumatic elbow. Caught by surprise, Gibson went to scream – but shock robbed him of his voice. All he could produce was a low, gurgling sound. Then he saw that it was Macmillan who had come into the men’s room.   

“Oh. Thank god,” he croaked, never moving, his hands seemingly welded to the edge of the basin. “Mark. Mark, help me up,” he retched weakly.    

When Macmillan saw him his eyes went round. He let out a giant, wet guffaw.   

“What’s all this, Eddie? Can’t hold your liquor anymore? Turned into a wee little girl, have you?” He laughed loudly.     

Gibson grimaced.    

“Mark, for God’s sake, help me up,” he said, sinking onto the floor. His legs felt like rubber.   

Macmillan strode over, got an arm around Gibson’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet with one rough yank. Gibson clung to the taller man to keep from falling over.    

“There now,” said Macmillan, pointing his foul breath directly at Gibson’s pale face. “Need a ride home, you great slug? You’re pissed!”   

Gibson reached out and gripped his friend’s wrist.     

“Were you here?” He asked Macmillan in a nagging whisper.  

"Been here the last twenty minutes. Me and Gary Fielding were playing darts over at the back when I got your te–"

"Did you see it?"  

“See what?” Macmillan said.    

“It! The thing! The – The –"    

He wouldn’t let himself say _werewolf_. Not yet. He lowered his voice again and said “The photo,” instead.     

“The one you sent?”    

“Aye. You saw it? The thing in the photo?”

“The dog thing. Sure. Take it with filter or something?”   

Gibson shook his head. “It wasn’t a filter, and it wasn’t photoshopped, and it wasn’t makeup, and it wasn’t a mask, either. It was a werewolf, Mark. A – A" _What else do you call them?_ "A shape-shifter. A god damned shape-shifter picked Charlie Orton up by his god damned shirt. Swear to God. There are shape-shifters here. You have to believe me.”   

Macmillan opened his mouth wide – and belched. “Piss off.”   

“ _I mean it_.” Gibson spoke in a half whisper, glancing nervously around the men’s room, like he was a spy about to divulge something top-secret.

To Macmillan he looked like a half-drunk, half-deranged fool.

“No offense, mate, but what would werewolves be doing here, of all places?” He asked Gibson.   

“I don’t know. I don’t know. But they’re here. Two of them. I treated one the other night at the clinic. And the other one – he just picked up Charlie Orton by his god damned shirt," Gibson explained shakily.

“Who?" Asked Macmillan. "The tall bloke with the sunglasses, you mean?”

"Aye."   

“Him? _He_ was a werewolf? Piss off.”     

"It's true. I swear on my mum's grave, it's true.”   

“Really?” Macmillan sounded intrigued. “Prove it.”   

In a sudden burst of newfound strength Gibson pivoted Macmillan around and shoved him back out the restroom door. Standing behind the taller man, he looked frantically around the pub. The thing which had occasioned his excited desire — no, his excited _need_ — to vomit had disappeared.    

“It – He was just here. Just here. His name is Ian Doyle and he was drinking a whiskey." Around Gibson, the noise of the pub seemed excruciatingly loud. He tried to talk over it. "Did you see him?”   

"Aye. Must've left. Maybe he went off to find himself a nice little red riding hood to eat."

“Damn it, Mark, I’m not making it up!”   

“Sure,” Macmillan said dismissively.   

“Really!” Gibson said, screeching, desperately insistent. “That man was a werewolf!”    

Macmillan was beginning to look uncomfortable. “Alright, you can drop it now. It's not that funny anymore.”    

“It’s not supposed to be funny! That man was a werewolf! And that women he was with the other night – she's a werewolf too! Can you believe it? It’s the scientific discovery of a lifetime. We have to – to – I don’t know. We have to talk to him. Her, too. Both of them. We have to learn more ab–”   

Macmillan was getting impatient. He made an effort to pull away. Gibson tried to hold him in place.   

“Maybe – Do you think they’d let me into their pack? If I kept their secret for them? We could _both_ join their pack, right? Be werewolves? Think about it. We could leave it all behind! No more bills. No more alimony. No more hassle. Just live the rest of our lives as great big bloody werewolves ha ha!” 

Gibson didn’t sound all that frightened anymore. He sounded ecstatic. Like a death-row prisoner who had just been given a last-minute reprieve.    

Macmillan shrugged out of his hold easily and walked away laughing. Gibson practically leapt after him.    

“Listen!” Gibson hissed, spinning Macmillan violently around by the shoulders. “Listen, I saw them. I’m telling you, I _saw_ them. We have to find them both and talk to them. Interview them. Get them to make us werewolves too!”    

Macmillan’s enormous hand landed on Gibson’s shoulder.    

“Get off, you crazy bastard,” growled the larger man, pushing Gibson away.    

Gibson stumbled back, Macmillan’s words echoing in his ears. The thought that he might be crazy crossed his mind again. But this time he ignored it. He knew without a doubt that what he was seeing – what he had _seen_ – was completely and totally real now. He was positive of it. He had proof, after all, right there on his mobile phone. Though he knew he would probably need more proof than that to garner true belief.   

He began to take deep, panicky breaths. As if he had just run a marathon. On every exhale, he talked.    

“Listen, Mark, we can borrow your uncle’s camera. The right-expensive one with the night vision and that. If I can get them on camera, changing and that, maybe we can send it to the news. Or – Or maybe we can blackmail them into letting us be werewolves t–”   

“ _Why_ in the hell would you want to do that, Eddie?” Macmillan questioned, acting as if he suddenly believed Gibson’s outlandish claims. “Think about it. We go up to these two, we don’t even know who they really are, and start pointing fingers, shouting werewolf, werewolf – never mind about being called a raving nutter, how do we know they won’t just rip our throats out for trying to expose them?”   

Gibson hadn’t thought of that. “Well . . . Neither of them – I mean, they didn’t really look all that evil to me. That one geezer who was just in here, he was in the clinic before, like I said, and he seemed pretty nice then.”   

“You mean the one who threatened to tear Charlie’s throat out? He seemed pretty nice, did he? Seemed pretty fucking _mental_ to me.”   

“Aye, but that was different. Charlie snared his daughter, so it makes sense that he would be a _little_ bit angry with him,” Gibson said, reasoning it out. “But us, we haven’t snared anybody. We don’t even hunt. Me, I _help_ animals. I’m the one who stitched up the daughter! Why, I’ll bet I don’t even need to blackmail them after all. If anything, they owe me one for how I helped the daughter and all. I reckon they'll make me one of them on principal.”   

“Fucking hell, Eddie," Macmillan said. "I think we'd better get you some fresh air, yeah?”   

The sweat was cold on Gibson's back as he stood on the stone steps of the pub. The trees across the car-park were bending in the wind. Somewhere, a storm was raging.

"I could escape from this," Gibson told Macmillan in a quivering whisper. "All I have to do is talk to them. Find out who they are, and ask them nicely to show me how."

Macmillan said nothing and watched Gibson pace along the sidewalk. The grass was damp with dew, and smelled particularly fresh.

Gibson pointed to the ground and said “There! Look! You see those?”   

Around the lawn, the soft mud was full of what looked like some whopping-big dog tracks. Only they were just a little too long, just a little too _narrow_ after a second glance.    

"I see them," Macmillan allowed.    

“I can tell you right now, they aren’t dog tracks.”    

“What are they, then?”   

“Werewolf tracks.”   

“Give over, you dumb burke.”   

“Ian Doyle came out and left those, and I’m going to find him. I'm going to find them both, Mark. With or without your help.”   

Macmillan looked at Gibson, his face dour and stern. Gibson could tell his friend wanted to keep arguing until he came to his senses. One of Macmillan's only talents seemed to be talking sense into ridiculously stupid people, but Macmillan could see the crazed determination in Gibson’s eyes. Eventually he decided arguing further just wasn’t worth it. 

Gibson could almost hear Macmillan's train of thought in his mind.

_Best leave it alone, Mark. There are some people in the world who just won't listen to reason, even if it comes from a friend._

“You crazy git,” Macmillan said at last. “Fine. You want to chase werewolves instead of a blonde or, I don't know, a new car? Go ahead. I’ll lend you whatever you need. Money, cameras, whatever. But chasing werewolves won't make you any younger, Ed.”   

A flicker of hurt passed over Gibson’s face. Macmillan pretended not to see it. He said, "Come on, I'll take you home. You're in no condition to drive."

Gibson huffed a sigh, gave Macmillan his car keys and followed Macmillan over to the Nova. Little was said during the car-ride home.

That night Gibson dreamed not of the dog-woman, but of many gaunt, grey beasts, who squatted on their haunches and turned their sharp noses up to the moon. He dreamed of feral dogs whose grizzled jaws were open and forever wailing. The sound more miserable and forlorn than the lamentations of a lost child crying for its mother. In the dream, Gibson threw his head back and sang with the wolves, and felt happy. 


End file.
